


all the bells on earth

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, inseparablesfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need hardly say that the winter bake-off sales are a huge hit with the staff and parents alike, and that, if done well, the proceeds can be a great benefit to the winning department.  As the competitors for the STEM team this year you two—“ </p><p>“You gotta be joking!”  Porthos’ indignant outburst has him sitting forward in his chair now, hands gripping the wooden arms.</p><p>Athos, meanwhile seems to have resigned himself to being a part of it, but has astutely seized on the collaborative grenade she just dropped on them, “Ninon, this is not a team sport!  No!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Week 0 - The Problem with Porthos

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to breathtaken for the idea in the first place, it took up residence and proceeded to eat my brain.

  
“Are you out of your _mind_?” Athos hisses.  
  
Having been on the receiving end of enough of his personality to be unfazed, Ninon folds her hands together and arches an eyebrow. “You were supposed to chaperone the back-to-school dance and you convinced someone else to do it. When I asked you to be the faculty advisor for the Academic Olympics team, you said you had a family emergency, which turned out to be sitting at home with a bottle of red wine.”  
  
“I am the only family I have, and if I’d left that bottle one more day, it would have gone to vinegar.”  
  
“Athos, you even managed to get out of judging the science fair last year. It is now time for you to behave like an adult and do your part as a member of this faculty.”  
  
Athos’ face is a study in horror. “But the Christmas bake-off?”  
  
Her smile is serene. “It rather makes you wish you’d just judged the science fair when I asked, doesn’t it?” There’s a knock on the door, and she looks up. “Ah, Porthos. Just the man I was hoping to see.”  
  
Porthos smiles at her until he catches sight of Athos out of the corner of his eye. HIs face drops to a scowl. “Fleur called and said you wanted to see me?”  
  
“Yes, thank you. Please come in.”  
  
Porthos comes into the office, closing the door behind him. He stands behind the other chair in the office, not moving; Ninon sighs.  
  
“Sit down, please.” When Porthos is seated next to Athos, both of them leaning as far away from the other as they can while still remaining ramrod stiff, Ninon rubs her temple and says, “I need hardly say that the winter bake-off sales are a huge hit with the staff and parents alike, and that, if done well, the proceeds can be a great benefit to the winning department. As the competitors for the STEM team this year you two—“  
  
“You gotta be joking!” Porthos’ indignant outburst has him sitting forward in his chair now, hands gripping the wooden arms.  
  
Athos, meanwhile seems to have resigned himself to being a part of it, but has astutely seized on the collaboration grenade she just dropped on them, “Ninon, this is not a team sport! No!”  
  
The burst of noise isn’t unexpected; Ninon sits back in her chair and lets them bluster until they both run out of steam. When they’re quiet again, Porthos’ chin jutting forward and Athos' forehead so furrowed his eyebrows actually meet in the middle; she continues. “As the competitors for your department this year you two can help us fine tune the new format. We’ve been looking for a way to put a new spin on it, and having department teams working together gives it a nice group effort feel.”  
  
The men are both still looking into the distance when she leans forward, bracing herself on her elbows. “You are both grown men, and you will behave like grown men.” She passes them each a sheet of paper; they do their best to pretend they aren’t looking at it.  
  
“This is the schedule. We’re starting the week before Thanksgiving; the last round is the day winter break starts. Five weeks. Porthos, if you can do basic training for the Army you can make it through five weeks of baking with Athos. And Athos, you survived the doctoral program at Princeton, you can survive this. Now, both of you get out of my office so I can pull out my emergency bottle of rum and drink my spiked coffee in peace.”  
  
Porthos leaves first, stalking out if not storming. Athos turns back to Ninon but she stops him, “Before you consider taking this to your department head, you should know that while it was _my_ idea to have you do this, it was Tréville’s idea to have you two do it together. So I’m not sure you’ll find much sympathy.” Her smile is diabolically sweet.

 

  
D’Artagnan catches up to Athos in the hallway.  
  
“Athos! There you are, I was— Oh, you look grumpier than usual. What happened?”  
  
“I’ve just come from speaking to our illustrious principal about this year’s winter bake-off.”  
  
D’Artagnan’s grin is enormous. “I spoke to her about it earlier. Constance and I are going to be the team for the Language Arts departments. We’re already planning what we’ll make.”  
  
“You’re partnered with Constance. Of course you are. Well bully for you and Constance."  
  
“Yeah, I am. Why? Athos, who did you get paired with?”  
  
Athos levels a stare at a point somewhere just to the left of d’Artagnan’s head and waits for his silence to speak for itself. If it had been Constance standing in front of him, she’d have laughed and teased him about it. Thankfully it’s d’Artagnan, who just looks at Athos with fathomless depths of sympathy and says, “Oh, no.”  
  
“Oh, but yes.”  
  
“Okay, Athos, I don’t really understand your problem with Porthos, but maybe this will be a good time to bury whatever hatchet you’ve got. I don’t know what caused these issues, but I’m sure you can get past them with some communication?”  
  
Athos thinks about the last four years, of all the times he’s had to leave the room when Porthos came in, of how that combination of shame and anger always sits in his belly white hot. “The problem with Porthos, as you so succinctly put it is…” He’s at a loss for words, or at least at a loss for words he can say out loud to d’Artagnan in the school hallway. “My point is you think this could be some magical healing moment. I sincerely doubt it. Please excuse me, d’Artagnan. I have to get ready for tomorrow’s conferences.” and he turns on his heel and walks back to his classroom.  
  
There’s a bouncing envelope at the bottom of his laptop screen telling Athos that he’s got new mail. It’s from Ninon, and Athos can hear her smug, quiet voice.  
  
 _Athos and Porthos,_  
 _I realized after you’d both left that I neglected to remind you of something. This is a team effort. It is not a chance to spare yourself half the work by trading off the duties. I expect you to collaborate on not only the decision of what each week’s offering should be, but on their creation as well._  
  
 _The first week’s selection is cookies._  
  
 _-N_  
 _(Should you have any issues about this stipulation that you’d like to bring up please feel free to visit me during the hours listed below)_  
  
The space below that is blank. Athos is absolutely certain that’s not an accident. The worst part, he knows, is that if she’s sent this just now it means she’s still in her office, and he can’t sneak in and steal her emergency rum.

 

Two hallways over, well out of earshot, Porthos’ “Son of a _bitch_!” is loud enough to startle Constance as she’s coming through his door.  
  
“Well, that answers my question of whether or not you’d spoken to Ninon.”  
  
“Not only do I have to be partnered with his smugness, but now I have to cook with him. I just know if I try to fuck off the rules and go it alone-“  
  
“Ninon will know.”  
  
“Ninon will always know.” Porthos drops his head into his hands and groans.  
  
He can feel Constance’s hand on his back, light but solid and warm. “Oh Porthos, don’t be upset. When you’re upset like this, I can’t enjoy my vicious glee at your suffering.”  
  
Porthos turns his head to look up at her. “People think you’re sweet and mild-mannered.”  
  
Constance beams her sunny smile. “People don’t know me as well as you do.”  
  
Looking for something, anything, to get the conversation off of him and his unfortunate predicament Porthos says, “Does d’Artagnan know about this malicious streak of yours?"  
  
“Oh, not yet. But perhaps if he’s a very good boy this year and asks Santa very nicely, I’ll let him in on it a bit."  
  
“Constance, you know I love you, but can we talk about this later?” Like never. Never would be good. “I’ve got Thursday’s conferences to get ready for and then I have to go home and drown myself in the kitchen sink."  
  
She smiles and pats him on the shoulder again. “Before you do that, write down the recipe for those salted caramel cupcakes. It would be a shame to take those into the afterlife with you."  
  
Once she’s gone, Porthos has to admit that Constance has a point, those cupcakes are too good to be lost to the world. He’ll make sure they’re his team’s entry for the cupcake week. It’s only fair, then, that Athos get to pick the first week. Porthos thinks back on half a decade of watching Athos bring in microwave meals or take-out leftovers for every lunch and realizes that it’s entirely possible that Athos has never once actually baked. In an effort to meet halfway, he’ll take some of the pressure off.  
  
Porthos bangs his head against the edge of his desk once, twice more and then takes his life into his own hands by sending an email to a man he hasn’t willingly spoken to in four years.  
  
 _Athos,_  
 _According to Ninon’s schedule, week two is cupcakes. I believe I have a suitable recipe for that if you would like to propose an idea for the first week. I am comfortable finding something as well if you would prefer to simply let me know a preference._  
  
 _With the sale being Tuesday afternoon, Monday would seem to be the best day to do the baking itself. The toaster oven I use for class demonstrations will not be large enough; we will need to decide where to do the actual preparation. I leave that to you._  
  
 _-P_  


 

Athos somehow gets all the way home before he sees the note come in. It’s a good thing, too, because it sends him so spitting mad that were he in the same building as Porthos still there would be fisticuffs in the main hall.  
  
Those fucking demonstrations. It seems like every two weeks all year long Athos has to listen to one of his students tell him about how amazing Mr. D’s demonstrations were. How Athos’ Algebra classes would be so much more fun if they did stuff like Mr. D did.  
  
Whenever it happens, it is all Athos can do to rein himself in, to not yell at them for twenty minutes about the joy of pure science and the importance of integrity of purpose in research. How, how, HOW does Porthos expect to properly express the gravitas of science if he’s using an E-Z Bake Oven?  
  
And the implication that he can’t come up with an idea on his own makes Athos bristle even further. Perhaps he doesn’t have years and years of pointless edible class experiments under his belt, but he can fucking well manage a cookie recipe.  
  
Predictably, Athos spends the evening drinking whiskey, neat, and trolling the internet for ideas because in fact he can not fucking well manage a cookie recipe without outside help. There's a moment spared for deep self-loathing over the fact that somehow, through a convoluted series of links, he has found himself on fucking Pinterest, but he finally settles on a recipe that will, if done correctly, knock whatever Constance and d’Artagnan manage on its ass. He is inordinately pleased with himself over this.  
  
He’s probably had too much to drink by the time he fires off the reply to Porthos’ email, but he’s blithely typing away anyway.  
  
 _DuVallon,_  
 _I am not entirely sure why you think I wouldn’t have a suitable recipe to hand. Rest assured I have the perfect thing, my mother used to make them for my brother and myself on winter days. Assuming they meet with your approval, we should probably do the preparation in your kitchen as mine is undergoing some slight renovations._  
  
 _-Athos_  
  
This is, almost entirely, made of lies.  
  
Athos has no doubt at all why Porthos thought he wouldn’t have a suitable recipe to hand. Porthos cannot have failed to notice that not a single thing about Athos indicates he is a homebody. Porthos is right about this. Athos lives on take-out and freezer meals and the occasional invitation to d’Artagnan’s for a cookout in warmer weather.  
  
Athos’ mother wouldn’t have known the inside of the kitchen any more than he would, that’s what servants were for. Even if you expanded the definition of “my mother used to make them” to include “my mother told the cook to make them,” there were still never cookies on winter days. There were two boys sitting with their noses pressed to the windows wishing they’d been allowed to go on holiday with their parents and occasionally getting lucky enough to sneak an extra helping of bread with dinner.  
  
The only “renovations” Athos’ kitchen is about to undergo will be the sudden influx of baking supplies. Right now he’s fairly certain all he has is the battered sheet pan he puts under those pre-made meals which, inexplicably and unacceptably, can not go in the microwave, and he’ll be damned if he admits that to Porthos.  
  
Even with the terrifying failure of personal integrity this note represents, he pastes the ingredients and steps for the recipe into the end of the email and hits send.

Porthos is surprised by the nearly chatty tone of Athos’ reply, as well as by the 2:30am timestamp, but any contemplation of it, or the included recipe, is lost in the preparation for parent-teacher conferences.

 

  
Like every year, the parents who really need to see him about their kids won’t come, the helicopter parents will come and badger him about why their little darlings don’t have a better grade, and there will be one or two bright moments of shared joy with a parent over their child’s progress. Porthos lives for that last one.  
  
Athos lives for the day _after_ parent/teacher conferences. He’s only got eight scheduled this year, which is about average for him. He spends the last hours before they show up scribbling down various moderately polite ways to say, ‘Your child is not special. He is not very smart or very dumb. Just like you. Stop asking if he can do extra-credit work, I don’t want anything more to grade.'  
  
The first three conferences are with various frazzled parents coming straight from work; they will take his feedback and continue doing the same thing they always have. The fourth is with his least favorite kind of parent, pushy power parents. He gives them one of his moderately polite alternative answers and when they ask again if Junior can have extra credit he shakes out his best death-glare and tries it on for a while.  
  
When they leave, it’s time for Julia Garnier’s parents. In a job where he’s not supposed to have preferences or like one student more than any other, Julia is one of Athos’ favorites. She does problems just for the joy of the solution and when it came time to explain quadrants and axes, he’d only had to tell her the difference once. Athos is looking forward to her conference if only because he won’t have to lie.  
  
There’s a knock at the door and Athos look up, expecting the petite blonde who has come in to drop Julia off on previous occasions. Instead, standing in the doorway, is a man with dark eyes and wild, brown hair. He’s unwinding a scarf from around his neck and Athos is willing to say he is quite handsome until the man hangs up his scarf and jacket and turns to smile and hold his hand out to Athos.  
  
“I’m Aramis, Julia’s father. Go easy on me, please, it’s my first time."  
  
If Aramis says anything else, Athos doesn’t hear it. There’s a feeling of his heart racing and a voice in his head that Athos supposes is his own saying, ' _Oh, no. How terribly inconvenient._ ' He reaches out to shake Aramis’ hand and introduces himself. Aramis flubs Athos’ last name once, then a second time in a somehow more egregious fashion. “Athos is fine."  
  
They talk for the allotted fifteen minutes, and Athos is happy to spend most of that time enthusing about what a joy Julia is to teach, how nice it is to have her in class. Aramis is clearly besotted with his daughter and unabashedly agrees with Athos’ assessment that she is bright and delightful.  
  
The only problem is that every time Athos gets on a roll, he looks up to see Aramis staring at him, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, and he loses his train of thought. Worse, Aramis responds by being even friendlier, more charming. The friendliness only serves to make Athos flustered. He’s probably trying to put me at ease, Athos thinks. It’s backfiring horribly because now Athos is spending most of his time trying not to stare at Aramis’ mouth and getting more and more flustered.  
  
They seem to be stuck in some kind of flustered-friendly-flustered feedback loop and Athos just wants to put his face in his hands until the time is up.  
  
When he’s not staring at Aramis’ mouth, he’s trying not to fixate on his hair. Or his hands. God those fingers, those long, slim fingers and the way they’re wrapped around his pen and oh, no no no, please don’t put that pen in your— Aramis starts nibbling on the end of his pen and Athos trails off mid-sentence.  
  
Aramis checks the clock on the back wall, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how much time I was taking up. I know you have other appointments. Thanks again, it’s always nice to hear good things about Jules."  
  
It would be nice, years from now, if Athos could look back and say that he was charming and said just the right thing as Aramis was taking his scarf and coat down from the hook, but he’ll never remember. He’ll only remember that Aramis says, “I have to get over to 214 to see her Science teacher, anyway. Thanks again!” At which point Athos remembers that 214 is Porthos’ room, and before he can stop himself he thinks, _Of course, you’ll like him better. Everyone always likes him better._  
  
He’s sure he says something, probably something formal and polite, then the door swings shut and Athos is standing next to his desk reminding himself that he doesn’t give two damns if the parents and students like Porthos better. This isn’t a popularity contest, it’s his career and he has more important things to focus on.  
  
Athos smoothes the front of his shirt, runs his fingers through his hair, and sits down to get ready for Michael Ryan’s parents and their endless litany of complaints.

 

Porthos is standing at the whiteboard doing some drawings in advance of the lessons he’s due to teach the next day when Aramis walks in. 

“I’m sorry Mr…” looking down, Aramis checks the name, “DuVallon? Am I in the right room?"  
  
It would be a disservice to make too much of how Porthos turns on his best smile. He’s not even conscious of how much of his face is now covered in a toothy grin and perilously deep dimples. It’s just the face he makes when he’s happy, and the fact that he gets to spend fifteen minutes talking to this gorgeous man is making him very happy.  
  
“That’s me! You must be Julia’s father?"  
  
“I am, yes.” Aramis introduces himself and then apologizes for the delay, saying that he’d just come from Athos’ room.  
  
Porthos grins. “Well, hopefully, this will be less grumpy."  
  
The look on Aramis’ face is confused at best. “He didn’t seem grumpy to me."  
  
“You just came from 246? And he wasn’t grumpy?"  
  
“Right,” Aramis says, “that’s the one. When he wasn't strangely flustered, he was quite charming and friendly."  
  
Porthos just stares for a second and then tries to dig himself out of this. He’d just been trying to find common ground with this gorgeous man and now he’s come off as mean. “I’m glad to hear that. He’s serious about his subject matter and that can sometimes make him very serious in conversation."  
  
Aramis smiles again. “Not this time, and I’m glad of it. That was my first conference; I don’t know that I would have been able to make it through if I’d been sitting across from a grumpy mathematician. No, he raved about Jules and explained the coursework and I was on my way."  
  
“And now you’re here,” Porthos says, broad smile back in place. “Where I’m going rave about Julia some more, because she’s a great kid."  
  
“She’s a big fan of yours as well. Last weekend I was treated to a reenactment of your investigation of the interactions of acids and bases.” He’s rocking the chair back on to two legs and gesturing wildly with his hands and Porthos is momentarily entranced by the movements before he responds.  
  
“How did it turn out?” he asks, cocking his head slightly.  
  
“Best muffins I’ve ever had,” Aramis says and laughs.  
  
Porthos shrugs and puts his hands out, palms up. “I believe in the real-world applications of science.” He laughs again, can’t help himself really, and then gestures for Aramis to have a seat in the visitor’s chair next to his desk and moves to sit in his own chair again. “That’s actually why I love this job, why I love teaching kids Julia’s age. That kind of practical evidence really helps kids grasp the concepts and recognize that science happens all around them."  
  
They spend the next ten minutes talking about the upcoming units and ways to continue challenging Julia at home so that she’s not getting bored by the standard coursework. Aramis promises to take that up with Julia’s mother and then takes a minute to look over some of her lab reports and boast about how accurate her drawings look. Porthos is just staring at this man staring at an awkward drawing of a meniscus and thinking that it’s not fair to make a person this beautiful who is also charming and in love with his kid.  
  
As they’re wrapping up, Porthos says, “So, you said Math was your first conference this year, how was your second?"  
  
Aramis smiles, taking his scarf down from the hook. “Oh no, not my first this year, my first ever."  
  
Porthos is intrigued. “How did you manage to get out of going to them so far?"  
  
There’s an awkward shrug from Aramis and a lopsided smile. “I wasn’t a big part of her life for a long time. Between being in the Army and with one thing and another. Still, we’re changing that now."  
  
“And it’s not all softball games and band concerts and ice cream after school,” Porthos says.  
  
“That’s almost exactly what Isabelle said,” Aramis laughs. “So I said to give me one of the down and dirty jobs and,” he shrugs and gestures around him, “here I am."  
  
“Well, I’m glad I could help break you in.” As soon as he says it Porthos wants to reel it back in because that just came out so much filthier than he’d intended. It’s exactly as filthy as every thought he’s had since Aramis came through the door, but it wasn’t meant to be out loud like that.  
  
Aramis barks a laugh but before he can say anything Porthos says, with every ounce of professionalism he can manage, “It was a pleasure to meet you, my information is on the evaluation form so please feel free to contact me if you have any questions about Julia’s coursework or how she’s doing.” He holds out his hand and Aramis shakes it, still smiling.  
  
“Thank you again for being so good with Julia. She’s lucky to have teachers like you and Mr. de la Fère."  
  
Porthos keeps smiling, but he’s blinking furiously as Aramis drops his hand and walks out, waving as he goes. He's trying to take in the fact that he’s just been grouped in with Athos in a way that was clearly meant as a compliment. This did not go how he’d intended. Not at all.  
  
While he’s not a consummate flirt, Porthos isn’t accustomed to falling flat on his face when trying to make a good impression, and it feels like he’s done just that. With the added fact that Aramis described Athos as charming and friendly, Porthos feels like the whole evening has been a bit of a funhouse mirror.  
  
Checking his schedule, Porthos realizes that Aramis was his last scheduled conference. Wanting nothing more than a quiet evening at home and to start Friday with the world back on an even keel, he stuffs his papers into his bag, cutting the lights and locking the classroom door behind him.

 

  
Athos wakes Saturday with an extravagant stretch and the realization that he’s somehow managed to get a good night’s sleep despite having worried that he’d just lay awake all night remembering Aramis’ mouth chewing on that pen. The clock says it’s half-past ten and, deciding to continue his self-indulgent streak, he puts on a worn pair of jeans and a faded but familiar flannel shirt, and heads to the coffee shop with his newspaper under his arm.

He’s been sitting at a corner table for almost an hour, letting the weak sunlight warm his face and gradually waking up to the point where he can enjoy beating the crossword into submission, when he hears the chirruping happy voice of a child calling his name. Athos deliberately picked a neighborhood out of his school’s geographic range so that he wouldn’t run into his students in public, but it still happens. He stifles a sigh and looks up, smiling.

Julia Garnier smiles back at him, bright and sunny, and Athos thanks god that if he had to run into one of his kids it’s one that he genuinely likes. His heart stutters a bit when he realizes that her father is right behind her. Athos smiles at him as well and says hello, asks how they are, tries to pretend he’s not imagining those lips doing obscene things.

Aramis seems content to stand there chatting amiably, but Julia, with the lack of concern for social graces common in thirteen-year-olds the world over, pulls a chair over to Athos’ table and sits down. Oh god, he’s going to have to do this, it would be unbelievably rude to leave Aramis standing while they’re both sitting, and that means he’s gong to have to be composed and social and… “Oh, where are my manners, pull up a chair and join me, please."

With a sheepish smile, Aramis does just that. Athos is worried the conversation will be awkward, but Julia fills in all the empty spaces with her own curiosity. She asks questions bout math and science and travel, she knows that Athos studied in Europe for a while and she asks questions about his travel. Before he realizes it, Athos is giving away a surprising amount about himself.

Normally he’d worry that he was boring them but from their faces it seems they’re both still interested and engaged. Julia continues to pepper him with questions and Athos decides the best defense against being tongue-tied in front of Aramis is to just pretend he’s not there. For almost an hour Julia and Athos swap questions and answers, Aramis chiming in from time to time, and the next time Athos looks up he sees that Aramis is watching them with an irresistably fond and warm expression. Athos smiles back at him and hopes that it looks like ‘your kid is amazing’ (which he absolutely feels) rather than ‘I’m wondering what your hair would feel like under my fingers’ (which he also feels, sadly).

Eventually, Aramis checks his watch and says, “Okay, kid. I promised your mother I’d have you home by three and we still have to stop and get a few things.” When she protests he stands firm for all of three seconds before saying, “Fine, you can keep talking while I go get a refill, but then we have to go.” Her smile is like sunshine.

She turns back to Athos, “He’s still nervous he’s going to say the wrong thing and I’m going to say I don’t want to see him anymore. Mom told him I did that with her last boyfriend.” She shrugs a little. “But that was just some guy, this is my dad. I’m always going to want to hang out with him."

Athos isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s saved by the return of Aramis, who puts a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Right, excellent work exploiting my part-time parent guilt for a few extra minutes, but we really do have to go, Jules.” He’s grinning down at her and when she smiles back Athos can’t help but notice that they look heart-stoppingly alike. “Thank you for letting us invade your quiet morning,” he says, smiling at Athos.

“Not at all, anytime; I enjoyed it."

Julia is wrapping her scarf around her neck as she says, “We come here sometimes on the weekends, maybe we’ll see you again!” Athos thinks that yes, given the cruelty of the gods, he probably _will_ continue to encounter this gorgeous man while he’s dressed in his slobby best and barely coherent.

Aramis gives him a friendly and oddly shy wave and Athos smiles and waves back as they leave. The fact that he’s sitting next to the window is the only thing keeping him from dropping his head to the table and groaning. _So inconvenient._

 

  
Sunday is a blur of productivity for Porthos. He gets his initial flurry of holiday shopping done, volunteers for a storytelling shift at the library, takes his dog to the park, and enjoys a well-deserved afternoon nap in his favorite chair, with a good book flopped face-down on his chest. Still, he spends all day thinking he’s forgotten something, no matter how often he checks his list.

He’s halfway through dinner before it hits him. If today is Sunday then tomorrow is Monday. What Porthos has forgotten, what was nudging at him earlier, is that instead of relaxing and catching up on his DVR and remembering how nice Aramis looked in those jeans, Porthos is going to be spending his Monday evening baking fucking cookies. With Athos.  
  
“Well, shit."


	2. Week 1 - The Double-Chocolate Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve half an urge to write to this woman and ask if she has any idea what kind of varying amounts you can get in a cup of flour,” Porthos says. “I’m not up for experimenting, but I’m willing to bet I get something like twenty percent less if I sift it first."
> 
> Athos is standing by the microwave with his finger on the start button and his mouth hanging open. Porthos is right. He’s absolutely right, and what’s more he’s now holding forth about how baking is a science and that measurement is important. Athos’ gut is tightening, his fingers are curling and uncurling. He is utterly unprepared for how it would affect him to see Porthos-the-scientist standing in front of him declaring the importance of precision.

 

They manage to avoid each other all day Monday.   Porthos sends a brief note to say that he’s fine hosting for the evening, that he’ll pick up the supplies, as he knows what he already has in the house, and finishing with his address.   It is perfectly polite and unobjectionable in every way. 

It still makes Athos bristle.

Porthos’ neighborhood is the perfect suburban dream.  This is incredibly irritating to Athos, who had been hoping that he lived in one of those funky urban areas with flats above bars because he could really use a beer right now.

It’s not that he’s anxious about any of the individual things that will happen this evening, the cooking itself will probably go quite smoothly, it’s just that he and Porthos haven’t voluntarily been in a room together in years, not since—no. Athos shakes his head.  Not tonight.  Tonight just grit your teeth and get through this.

 

The house is a brick-fronted bastion of coziness with warm light spilling from the windows and winter-blooming heather flanking the walk. Athos takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

Porthos is wearing a navy blue fisherman’s sweater and jeans; he’s barefoot. Athos is utterly unprepared for the way it makes his heart stutter.  Moments like this are the reason he’d agreed to go out with Porthos in the first place, all those years ago. 

“Oh good, I was worried you’d get lost,” Porthos says.  Athos bristles again, he’s not an idiot, he can work a sat-nav, and just like that he’s back in a familiar place.  Porthos is irritating and Athos isn’t distracted by the way his jeans are hanging on his hips. 

He follows Porthos into the kitchen after hanging his coat on the hook by the door.  Porthos gestures to a bottle of wine open on the counter and an empty glass next to it.  “Please help yourself. I’m sure I’m not posh enough to know what wine to pair with obscenely large piles of chocolate. Hopefully, this won’t be too terrible.”  

There’s… something.  There’s something in the set of Porthos’ shoulders and the way his fingers are curled against the worktop that looks to Athos like nothing so much as defensiveness.  Porthos isn’t lashing out at Athos; he seems to be trying to get ahead of Athos in lashing out at himself.  

Athos feels something like compassion wrap around his heart and squeeze.  If there’s one thing he’s familiar with, it’s beating yourself down before the rest of the world gets a turn.  He would smile and try to be nice, but Athos is sure Porthos would just assume he was being an ass, so instead he pours himself a glass and says, “I’m sure it will suit the evening." 

Porthos snorts and rolls his eyes, but his fingers uncurl just a bit.  “So, since I know where things are here, how about if I make sure you have what you need to hand and deal with measuring and such?"

“You want to be my kitchen assistant?” Athos asks and immediately knows it was the wrong thing to say. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of sous-chef,” Porthos says, and his voice is brittle.  “I know you think I’m an idiot, but I can manage handing you the vanilla." 

Athos is legitimately startled.  “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”  He never has, that’s part of what irritates him so much about Porthos’ approach to science.  He’s exceptionally bright and his ability to understand greater concepts is inspiring, but when he teaches he reduces it to terms that are worse than simple, they’re simplistic. 

Shaking it off, Porthos hands him an apron, white with blue ticking stripes, and says, “Let’s get started, I know you’re anxious to leave.”  Which is true, because the minute Athos leaves this house he can get himself back on solid ground.  Porthos unsettles him, always has, and Athos continually feels like Alice escaping the red queen.  He has to run so hard just to stay where he is. 

Porthos calls up the recipe on his iPad and hands it to Athos.  “Excuse me for just a second, I’ll leave you to look that over.”   He turns on his heel and leaves Athos standing in the kitchen for four minutes holding the tablet and feeling completely out of his depth for something as simple as making cookies.

 

For his part, Porthos spends those four minutes locked in his bathroom.  He’s standing at the sink with his head cradled in his hands, fingers tangled through his hair.  Every part of him is trying to get his equilibrium back.  Athos gets inside his defenses, always has.  Porthos is insecure enough about his own upbringing, his own style of academics, even on the best of days.  When Athos is in the room, oozing breeding and advanced degrees from his pores, it’s so, so much worse. 

Athos takes everything that Porthos’ inner demons whisper in his ear, and makes it real. The way he stares at Porthos says, “You never knew your father’s name.”  The way he talks about science says, “These are the kind of things you pick up if you earn an advanced degree.”  His look every time someone mentions Porthos’ classroom style says, “How can you expect anyone to respect you as a teacher if you’re so chummy with the kids?”  He’s never said any of these things aloud, but for Porthos, it isn’t necessary to hear them said out loud for them to cut him to the quick. 

Porthos knows how Athos feels about him, has known it since they sat across from each other at the table and Athos had said, “I think we’re finished here,” before putting his napkin on his plate and walking out.  Nothing Athos has done in the intervening four years has done anything to contradict Porthos’ memories of that evening. 

The thing he remembers most is a kind of mild grief.  It’s hard to remember all the reasons he’d been so excited to go out that night, but grieving the opportunities lost feels as fresh as if he’d done it that morning.  He had, he supposes.  He does it every time he sees Athos; he mourns the loss for the split second it takes for the shame and indignation to set in. Now he’s hiding in his bathroom trying to remember all the things he’s done, how far he’s come, trying to put them on him like armor so he can go out there and get through an evening with a man who uses conversation like a knife.

 

He walks back into the kitchen to find Athos frowning slightly and scrolling through the page on the screen.  There’s a split second where Porthos hopes to Christ his auto-complete didn’t spit up something embarrassing in this search bar, before Athos says, “Sorry, I got caught up reading the reviews.  There were a few good things to remember about the preparation.”   He gestures to a legal pad on the counter.  “I made a few quick notes."

Athos’ handwriting is precision blocks, all capital letters, and the words it spells out are, “Avoid over-melting chocolate. Hypothesis: Chilling batter might provide better results.”  Porthos is charmed in spite of himself and it takes a minute to straighten his face. 

While Athos scribbles down one more note, Porthos assembles the beginnings of a mise en place.  Eggs in a bowl, vanilla in a tiny prep bowl, everything all in a row.  Athos is melting the chocolate in the microwave in twenty-second increments when he hears Porthos give a frustrated grunt. 

“Is there a problem?” he asks, already on the defensive. 

Porthos frowns.  “The measurements for the dry ingredients are given in volume." 

It’s Athos’ turn to frown. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense, how are you supposed to have any consistency in results." 

“Exactly. I’ve half an urge to write to this woman and ask if she has any idea what kind of varying amounts you can get in a cup of flour,” Porthos says.  “I’m not up for experimenting, but I’m willing to bet I get something like twenty percent less if I sift it first." 

Athos is standing by the microwave with his finger on the start button and his mouth hanging open. Porthos is right. He’s absolutely right, and what’s more he’s now holding forth about how baking is a science and that measurement is important.  Athos’ gut is tightening, his fingers are curling and uncurling.  He is utterly unprepared for how it would affect him to see Porthos-the-scientist standing in front of him declaring the importance of precision. 

He snaps his mouth shut and asks, “What do you propose we do?" 

Porthos turns to him, startled. If you’d asked him how this evening might go, what it might include, Porthos would never have said that Athos would ask his opinion about something with a tone of honest curiosity. 

“I… We should probably start with a smaller amount, volume-wise, and do a short-run batch to assess the outcome before committing the rest of the supplies.”  Athos nods.  That’s settled, then. 

Athos pours himself another glass of wine and pops some of the leftover chocolate into his mouth.  This is not going as he expected.  Not at all. 

He puts the eggs, brown sugar, and vanilla into Porthos’ bright blue mixer and spares a moment to think about how it fits perfectly into the hodge-podge kitchen decor.  Nothing matches, but everything goes together.  It’s cheery and happy and the absolute antithesis of anything Athos has ever known a kitchen to be.  A few of the tiles in the floor are cracked and one of the bulbs in the overhead light fixture is burnt out, but neither does anything to dim the overall feeling of lived-in comfort.  

While Athos is incorporating the melted chocolate, Porthos is whisking together the dry ingredients. He’s left a reserve of flour out, just as they discussed, and a smile pulls at the corner of Athos’ mouth.  Porthos puts pre-cut sheets of silicone parchment paper over the baking sheets and slides them into the freezer to chill. 

“You’re not spraying the pans?”  Athos asks.  For a second Porthos bristles just on instinct. Then he stops for a reality check.  No, Athos hadn’t sounded superior or belittling, he’d just sounded curious.

“The paper works better for getting the cookies to release and it makes cleanup easier.”   His smile is quiet and small but open. 

Athos stops to wonder why Porthos is being nice to him.  Porthos, who has gotten up and left every room Athos has walked into for years since the morning after That Night.  Porthos, who looks straight through him at faculty meetings.  When he sees Porthos pour himself a second glass of wine as well, he thinks, _Oh, that’s why._ Wine makes friends of us all, he supposes. 

The test batch proves to be slightly runny so they incorporate some more flour and test again.  Athos makes notes while Porthos dictates results. It must have been the second glass of wine that free Porthos enough to say, “Remember, writing it down is the only difference between science and just fucking around.”   Athos has no idea what frees him enough to let himself smile. 

For a split second he hears Ninon’s voice in his head, a conversation they’d had years ago when the wounds were still fresh.  She’d asked for details as to why two of her best faculty appeared to be involved in a conflict more suited for the girls’ bathroom at a school dance, both of them had refused to give them, each too embarrassed. Eventually, she’d stopped pushing and just said, hands up in supplication, “Three weeks ago you were smiling at each other across the room and sharing classroom management tips.  Can’t you try to remember why you liked him in the first place?"

No, he’d said. No. Not telling her that he’d never forgotten, he just hurt so much less when he ignored it. Instead, he’d beaten those memories down with fresher ones of rejection and embarrassment.  It’s tempting to dig those earlier memories back out again tonight, but Athos stops himself.  He’s not oblivious to the walls he’s put around himself, but they're there for a reason.  In the interest of meeting this polite version of Porthos halfway, he’ll be as polite as he can be, but the walls stay. 

The third test batch is the winner. Athos makes the notes about how long they were cooked and at what temperature while Porthos prepares another set of sheet pans and puts them in the oven.  They’re working in silence.  At first it’s awkward but somewhere in the sixth or seventh pan they put into the oven it becomes just a companionable quiet. 

Athos has stopped drinking because he knows he’ll have to drive home later; Porthos is on his fourth glass and has put on some music Athos doesn’t recognize.  It’s a collection of songs all sung by the same woman.  Some are haunting and low, some are deceptively bouncy until he listens and realizes they’re nearly sinister.  Porthos is humming along from time to time but never quite singing.  Athos refuses to be charmed, refuses to be lulled into a false sense of security.  This man doesn’t like him, hasn’t liked him for years, this man can cut him with a look if Athos lets him get behind the armor.   He swallows and wishes he didn’t care so much. 

Even with both ovens going, it’s nearly 11 before they’ve finished all the baking.  “They’ll need to cool,” Porthos says.  “If we box them up now they’ll get soft and ruin the texture.  I’ll package them up later tonight and bring them in tomorrow." 

“Fine. Good,” Athos nods and hands over his apron.  He’s trying not to be stiff, but he’s feeling awkward again now that it’s the end of the evening, and stiff seems to be his natural reaction. 

Porthos walks him to the door and waits while Athos puts on his coat and scarf, and then holds the door open. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Athos says.  When Porthos looks at him, startled and confused, Athos continues, “In the lobby, right after last bell.  That’s where Ninon usually sets up the tables for the sale."

Something shutters down behind Porthos’ eyes as he nods.  “Right. In the lobby.”  There’s a pause that’s half a second too long while they both wait to see if the other will go for a handshake.  Neither of them does and Athos nods again. 

“Good evening, then.”  He turns and walks out the door before Porthos can respond.  Whether he’s avoiding what Porthos might say or avoiding the fact that Porthos might not say anything at all, Athos isn’t sure.  The door is closed behind him before he’s halfway down the walk, but the porch light doesn’t go off until he’s into his car.

 

Athos sits for a minute with his head against the steering wheel and tries to get his feet back under him.  He’d expected the evening to be tense from start to finish, for Porthos to be snappish and avoid him as much as possible.  He’d half expected Porthos to hand him a book and tell him to wait in the living room, that just by showing up he’d fulfilled Ninon’s obligations.  He had not expected Porthos to be a gracious host, an opinionated scientist, and a companionable work partner. 

Unsure of how to handle this new information, Athos rakes his fingers through his hair and starts the engine.  Driving away, he thinks perhaps he sees the flicker of a curtain in Porthos’ front window, but decides it’s only his imagination. 

 

Porthos straightens the curtain back into place and goes back into the kitchen to finish the cleanup.  Athos had put all of the bowls and utensils in the sink and scrubbed the counters down while Porthos loaded the dishwasher.  It doesn’t bear thinking about, Porthos decides, how easily they worked with each other. 

Athos had understood the need for a couple of test batches, the importance of notes. He’d done his part in the cleanup without batting an eye and hadn’t complained about the music.  The recipe he’d sent was incredible, even if Porthos didn’t believe for a second that Athos’ dear old mom had made it for him when he was a boy.  

Yesterday he’d have made a joke about emotionless androids not having boyhoods, but he can’t bring himself to do that tonight.  The past four years of Porthos’ life have been filled with getting away from Athos’ withering looks, and Porthos had assumed tonight would be as well. 

He’d expected that every time he opened his mouth Athos would stare at him as though he were barely speaking in grade-school vocabulary.  He would never have expected Athos to back him up on needing to have measurements by weight instead of volume.  If having Athos agree with him on that was a surprise, having Athos ask for his opinion on how to handle it was utterly bewildering. 

For a second Porthos thinks that he’s never seen that Athos, the Athos who is curious and engaged and smiling, but he knows that’s wrong.  He’s seen something like this Athos, it’s just been four years and the memory had grown dim.  It was a smile like the one tonight that had caught his attention in the first place; it was the curious and engaging nature that had led to a dinner invitation. It doesn’t matter what led to that, what matters is only what happened after.

Porthos stops and shakes himself.  

He remembers the end of this evening, when he’d thought that Athos was attempting to reach out, saying “I’ll see you tomorrow,” as though perhaps he won’t look straight through Porthos should they pass in the hall.  Instead, Athos was just reminding him the purpose of their evening, reminding him that this was all about Ninon’s orders and nothing else. 

He runs through a mental film of Athos’ Greatest Snubs.  All the times Athos came into a room and looked his way with that cold stare, making it clear how he felt about Porthos being there.  Porthos always got the hint and left without a backward glance.  Faculty meetings where Athos had come into a nearly-empty room and still taken the seat furthest from Porthos and only looked at him to glare. Most of all he remembers the way Athos didn’t even slow down, didn’t even look back, as he walked out that night, how everything there might have been between them crumbled quietly under his feet as he left. 

With the rejection and anger fresh in his mind, Porthos heads to bed.  He’s not going to mourn that night any more than he already has. An evening absent dirty looks and snide insults is more than he could have hoped for and all he wants to achieve. He’ll be polite and civil, but he’ll keep his armor on. 

 

Athos passes Ninon in the lobby the next morning.  She spares him a glance and says, “Porthos just came through. He’s looking well and in one piece, also.  I see you both survived your first encounter.”  Athos snorts and keeps walking, trying to convince himself that how Porthos looked this morning is none of his concern.

The day goes faster than he might have expected.  Usually in a short week before a holiday the kids are antsy and unfocused, classroom management is a problem and there’s no focus. Today, though, they seem to sense that he’s a bit on edge and have backed down.

He gives them some practice questions and some time to get them done and then loses himself in the explanation of one of the Millennium Prize problems. The kids find his enthusiasm amusing and seem to actually be engaged and paying attention. For just a second, Athos wonders if this is what it’s like to be Porthos, with kids actually liking him. 

Athos’ last class block is a planning period, so he’s in the lobby in time to see the custodial staff setting up tables.  Constance is there already, shaking out paper tablecloths and arranging signs.  Notes about the sale have gone home with the students, and the sale is a school tradition, so they’re expecting a decent amount of traffic.  When Constance sees him, she smiles. 

“Athos! Come give us a hand.” Together they waste a few minutes hanging a large sign, Constance happily chattering about the plans she has for the upcoming weekend.  Athos has known her for years, longer than anyone else on the staff, and it’s nice to catch up with her.  When d’Artagnan arrives with their offering, Athos sees Constance’s face and realizes there are some weekend plans she might not have divulged.  He shudders and tries not to think about it. 

Just as he’s trying to wipe the grimace from his face he hears Constance call Porthos’ name.  When Athos turns to give his own greeting, he stops in his tracks.  Whatever progress they’d made the night before must have been more due to the wine that he’d originally thought. The look on Porthos’ face right now is the not the look Athos has been seeing for four years, but it’s also not the look of last night’s comment on the difference between science and “just fucking around.”  His face is perfectly blank. Athos is kicking himself for being surprised. 

They’re busy enough that they don’t need to make it obvious how much they’re not speaking to each other. Athos speaks mostly to the parents; as much as it galls him to admit, Porthos has a much better rapport with the students.  As things are winding down, Athos takes stock. All the tables have done well, but Athos and Porthos are far ahead of both d’Artagnan and Constance’s offering on behalf of Language Arts or Louis and Anne’s Fine and Practical Arts table.

Athos is ready to call the afternoon a practical success, if not a personal triumph, when he sees Julia and Aramis coming up the hall.  Julia’s smile is bright and sunny and Athos can’t help but smile back.   He’s opening his mouth to say something when he hears Porthos’ cheery voice say, “Hey!  Fancy meeting you here.”  

Aramis smiles and laughs.  “I know!  It’s almost like I knew you worked here.”  His smile is ridiculously charming.  They talk for a few minutes while Athos sends a few more bags of cookies home with other parents.  Aramis asks what’s going on and Porthos explains the tradition of the holiday sale, how the proceeds go to the winning department and get used for supplies.  

Turning that smile on Athos, Aramis says, “Well, I can’t miss out on that.  Not just cookies, but cookies and a chance to support Julia’s favorite teachers.”  Athos can feel himself blush and wants to stab himself with a pencil for being so obvious. 

Porthos just laughs and says, “Well we’ve got just a couple of bags left, but I think one of them might just have your name on it.”  He reaches for one of the last two bags, only to have Aramis interrupt. 

“Give me both bags.  Some for dessert tonight, some for Jules’ lunch tomorrow.”  There’s that ridiculous smile again.

The smile Porthos gives him in return is almost as ridiculous and certainly as charming.  That’s a smile Athos hasn’t seen in four years. How could he have forgotten?

“Well, if we’re out of cookies, that means I’m finished here, and I can ask if you and Julia would like to join me at the coffee shop up the street for after-school drinks.  I usually stop for one on the way home." 

Julia looks up at Aramis and clutches at his sleeve like a Dickens orphan.  “Please Dad?  You let us have coffee with Mr. de la Fère on Saturday and this is just like that!" 

Athos can feel Porthos stiffen beside him, and even though Porthos’ face doesn’t change a bit, the air between them grows tense again. 

“We’d love to,” Aramis says, and Porthos smiles at him, sunny and bright. 

“Great!  I need to take my own car.  I’ll meet you there in about five minutes?" 

Aramis agrees and waves at Athos as he leads a frothingly excited Julia out the lobby doors. 

Athos had thought he might be making some progress in his interactions with both of these men and now they’re heading off together on what looks suspiciously like a date. He’s stealing Ninon’s emergency rum if he has to knock her out with a basketball trophy to do it.

  

Porthos walks into the coffee shop to see Julia and Aramis already seated on a long sofa by the fire.  He joins them with his drink and notices the open bag of cookies in front of them.  “I see you’ve gotten an early start, how are they?" 

Aramis’ eyes roll back and he makes a truly obscene sound.  “They’re _incredible_. My sister has a similar recipe she makes, she used to send them to me when I was deployed and most months they were the best thing that happened.  These reminded me of how excited I was to see those boxes."

Porthos can’t help but smile, as Julia chimes in, “Dad was in the Army!”  He turns to Aramis and raises his eyebrows. 

“Is that so?" 

Aramis nods, taking a drink of his coffee and saying, “Fifteen years." 

“What was your MOS?”  Porthos ask, using the Army shorthand for a specialty.  His high-school boyfriend had joined the Army directly after graduation and Porthos remembers the importance placed on the code that would determine so much about Jason’s career. 

Aramis smiles, on familiar ground, “Sixty-eight W, field medic.”  Porthos’ eyes go wide; the things Aramis must have seen are horrifying to think about.  

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you were stationed somewhere quiet?" 

“Far too much to hope, I’m afraid. The first few years were quiet, but I’ve been in Iraq or Afghanistan for the last six years.”  At Porthos’ grimace, he smiles.  “It gave me all the practice I’d need at being calm under fire, comes in extremely handy as an EMT." 

Porthos turns his attention to Julia, to regain some control over the heat creeping up his neck as much as for her company.  “Jules, what are you going to get up to over the Thanksgiving weekend?" 

She takes a huge slurp of her hot chocolate and says, “Tomorrow I’m helping mom’s boyfriend get the turkey ready, then Thursday I’m cooking with mom and Paul.”  Porthos flicks a look over to Aramis, who mouths _the boyfriend_.  “We’re all having dinner together.  Even Dad.”  There's the jingle of the bell hanging inside the door, and Julia gets distracted as a friend of hers comes into the shop.  She jumps up to go visit.

“So,” Porthos says, once they’re alone, “are you telling me that you’re a good father, dangerously attractive, and you save peoples’ lives?  That’s hardly fair, is it?  How are mere mortals meant to resist you?" 

Aramis laughs.  “Best not to try then.”  Porthos’ smile spreads across his face as he stares directly at Aramis.  Aramis doesn’t break eye contact even as he tips his drink up to his mouth. If anything, the way he smirks over the coffee cup makes his look even more attractive. 

Porthos puts his drink down and cocks one eyebrow. “I don’t mean to be indelicate but… is it dinner with the ex and her new boyfriend or are you all in a relationship?"

Aramis laughs into his coffee and sends part of it spattering up onto his face.  Wiping his eyebrows off with a napkin, he says, “Good question. No, it’s dinner with the ex and her new boyfriend.  Not that I’d object to the other, Paul’s a great guy, but Isabelle has always been better than I deserve, and we both know it.  She knows I’m single, though, and my family isn’t local, and she’s working hard to give me plenty of opportunities to bond with Julia, so she extended the invitation.  Apparently I’m on dessert duty.”  His grin twinkles.  “I have half a mind to commission you to make more of these,” he gestures to the open bag of cookies on the table. 

For a second, barely even a breath, Porthos remembers moving around the kitchen in concert with Athos, not even having to speak in the rhythm of their work, and the smile on Athos’ face after the third test batch came out perfectly.  He shakes his head. “Oh, I’m afraid I could never do that.  You see, we only make them once a year. Limited run.  However, I might be convinced to disclose the recipe over dinner?” 

Swirling the remains of his coffee around the inside of his cup, Aramis makes a quiet _hmm_ noise. “Let me think.  Dinner with the charming scientist with the incredible dimples?  I think I could make room for that.”   His grin is bright and wicked. 

There’s a soft whump as Julia flops back onto the sofa.  Aramis smiles at her, gripping the top of her head and jostling her slightly.  “Hey you.”  He checks his watch.  “I need to get you home; you ready?”   She tosses back the rest of her hot chocolate and nods.  Aramis scribbles his number on a napkin and slides it across the table towards Porthos. “Send me a text and we’ll set something up." 

Porthos takes the napkin between the index and middle finger of his right hand and sketches a quick salute with it.  “Will do.”  Turning to Julia he says, “Have a good night, don’t make your parents too crazy, and send me an email if you need help with the stuff we talked about today.” 

“I will, Mr. D, thanks!”  Porthos watches them walk out, waiting until the door is closed behind them before pulling his phone out and sending a quick text. 

_Looking forward to dinner._

Through the door, Porthos can see Aramis checking his phone and shaking his head. 

  
_Me too_ , the return message buzzes on Porthos’ phone. He’s watching when Aramis turns back to look into the shop and grin at him.

If it leads to dinner dates with gorgeous men and spending not-entirely-horrible evenings with Athos, maybe Ninon roping him into the bake-off isn’t as bad as he’d thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These poor loves, they're being so hard on themselves and on each other. I'm writing this and even I want to get them a blanket and some tea.
> 
> Because I would be absolutely remiss if I didn't include the recipe, here are the cookies they're making: [Outrageous Chocolate Cookies](http://juliasalbum.com/2013/03/outrageous-chocolate-cookies-recipe/)
> 
> I'm not a chocolate fan, so I can't vouch for them, but they look like the kind of thing chocolate lovers would get into a fist fight over. If you make them let me know!


	3. Week 2 - The Salted Caramel Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly before the last period he sends a quick note to Porthos asking what he can bring that evening. The reply is fast and says it’s Athos’ turn to supply the wine. Whatever goes well with caramel.
> 
> At five minutes after, seven Athos is standing at Porthos’ door with a bottle of Malbec, under the assumption that fucking everything goes with caramel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're Aramis-free this week in prep for a double dose next week. Have a great New Year's, everyone. Be safe and let's keep our fingers crossed that 2015 is better than this year's bucket of suck.

Porthos spends his Thanksgiving with a circle of close friends from college, all of them alone for the holiday. He tries making the cookies again to bring as his offering, but they don’t turn out quite right, even when he follows Athos’ notes. In the end, he stops at the store for a pie and hopes one makes up for the other. The dinner is fine, but what he's looking forward to most is stopping in at Constance’s on the way home.

Athos starts his Thanksgiving with black coffee and the certainty that he’d rather do just about _anything_ other than have dinner with his parents. He knows; he _knows_ how the rest of the faculty views him. He’s posh and superior and disconnected from real people, they think, but that’s because they haven’t met his parents.

He wears his breeding and upbringing like a cloak, he’s not happy wrapped in it, but it certainly helps blunt the effects of everyone else’s judgment. In that cocoon, he can keep his reactions flat and hide any real emotions. It’s not nice, but it’s safe.

His parents, on the other hand, are the actual people Athos is only pretending to be. Five years ago their butler took over the job of making sure the cars are filled with gas. This has had two practical results. First, Athos’ father has stopped ruining the engines of high-performance automobiles by just randomly filling them from whichever pump handle looked the cleanest. Second, instead of euphemistically being referred to as ‘the kind of people who don’t know how much gas costs’ they now _actually_ do not know how much gas costs.

The butler doesn’t do the actual fueling, he gets one of the apprentice groundskeepers to do it because even Athos’ parents’ servants are snobs.

His mother had informed him that cook would have dinner ready at noon, so Athos arrives at 11:45. He grits his teeth and tries to remember why he ever thought this life was one he would aspire to. Everything is pristine and the meal is perfect, if stiflingly boring. The boring meal means he’s free to focus on the passive aggressive badminton game his parents have going on over his head. They’re seated at opposite ends of the table and he’s safe until after the soup, when they turn their gazes on him.

“We’re so sorry Tommy couldn’t make it,” his mother says.

 _‘Tommy' is a grown man,_ Athos thinks. _And if he were here he’d be pitching a toddler-level fit about how his name is Thomas and even_ that _would be more interesting than whatever your cook has done to these vegetables._

“He was so hoping to be here,” she continues. “Unfortunately he’s presenting a paper in Geneva and they just could not reschedule him. As a keynote speaker apparently his timing is fairly locked-down.” She heaves a sad little sigh and then looks up at Athos. He can almost hear the targeting lasers locking on. “Oh, Olivier, I almost forgot to ask. How is your job hunt going?"

Athos counts to five and finishes chewing his food. Both of those things keep him from snapping at his mother, a move that will only make the day worse.

“I am not returning to academia, Mother.”

His mother just stares at him. His father looks confused and says, “I don’t understand; are you saying that you intend to stay at this level of teaching?"

Athos thinks about all the things he could say. That without good and dedicated teachers future generations will never understand how numbers can be magical. How he’d never expected to but he’s come to find that on some days he doesn’t actually hate teaching the way he did with college students. How rewarding it can be on a day when the kids are paying attention and he somehow manages to communicate a concept successfully. How the clawing fight for funding for research always forced him to be more competitive, more pandering and insincere than he ever wanted to be again. That after finding his girlfriend fucking his department head _on Athos’ desk_ he’d been put off the idea of sucking up to the powers that be ever again.

Instead, he just cuts another piece of turkey and says, “Yes.” Unable to combat that, Athos’ father makes a look like his dog has just solved for Fermat’s last theorem incorrectly and drinks some more of his wine.

With the utter failure of her last salvo, it takes Athos’ mother a few minutes of silent chewing to come up with her next attack. He’s watching as her eyes glitter slightly and he wonders what’s coming.

"We got a lovely Christmas card from Jessica yesterday. You know she’s still single."

Athos has been cutting another piece off his turkey and at the mention of his college girlfriend’s name the knife goes straight through the meat and makes a horrid scraping screech against the plate. He can’t help but notice that ordinary dinnerware can’t quite reach the quality of blood-curdling noise that you can get from generations-old silver on bone china.

“Mother, I’m absolutely certain that if Jessica wanted to be dating someone, she would be.” He doesn’t mention that he and Jessica had spent three years trying to figure out why their relationship only “sort of” worked only for her to realize that a lack of romantic feelings didn’t make her “broken” and wasn’t something she should “work harder to fix” around the same time that he stopped pretending he wasn’t watching his Philosophy TA’s ass every time the guy bent to pick something up off the floor.

It had been an utterly amicable break up and she remained a dear friend. Athos has it on good authority (Jessica’s) that while she is not romantically involved in ways her mother might like, she’s leading a life so fulfilling to her it makes Athos jealous even to think about it.

Because he doesn’t say any of this out loud, his mother doesn’t stop her relentless advance. “Of course it can’t be easy for her to be thinking about dating while she’s working so hard. Then again, perhaps she’s working so hard because she’s trying to take her mind off of it."

Athos groans. “She’s the head of pediatrics at Children’s Hospital, Mother. I’m absolutely positive that’s not a role you take on just to forget about that you’re making dinner reservations for one."

“Still, it will be nice when she can settle a bit and focus on her own children."

One. Two. Three. Athos is still counting in his head as he drains his wineglass when his father says, “You should call her. I know you probably ended things with Jessica because you didn’t want to jump into marriage too early, but I think we all know how your ‘wild oats’ phase turned out for you."

“And for everyone else involved,” his mother finishes. “Goodness, Olivier. I know you liked that woman but…"

Yes. That’s one way to put it. Heart-rendingly in love and slavishly devoted would also suit. The wine is turning to vinegar in his mouth and if he doesn’t stop drinking now, he’ll be forced to stay here longer while he sobers up enough to drive away.

“Honestly, we’ve been members of that club for four generations, and your father can’t even show his face in the dining room anymore. He’s only just started playing the course again in the last month. Perhaps next time you’ll check with me on who might be a suitable partner, now that we know how it turns out if you trust your own judgment."

Unbidden, Athos flashes back to that night at dinner with Porthos, how excited he’d been for that date and how much he’d been looking forward to the evening. _Yes, Mother, clearly._

It’s just past 2pm when he leaves, only passingly apologetic about having to go before dessert. “Some friends have invited me,” he says, a special dig on ‘friends’ as he knows it will gall his mother to think he has social circles she doesn’t know about, didn’t approve of in advance.

He makes a left at the end of the long driveway and heads up the street half a mile until he’s sure he’s out of sight, then pulls over. The radio is on the local classical station and Athos sits with his forehead against the steering wheel until the mournful cello solo finishes and most of the tension has drained out of his finger tips. He wants his bed and a book and to forget this day ever happened, but he’d promised Constance he’d stop by to see her.

The drive between his parents’ neighborhood and Constance’s funky little farmhouse is blissfully easy and Athos tries to use the time to remind himself why his life is better than his parents fear. Mostly he tries to remind himself that it is his life, the choices and consequences are his. It hurts more because he agrees with so much of what they say. He would have loved a life in academia, would have loved to be that crotchety absent-minded professor who closets himself away for years working on answering a problem that no one else can solve. On his worst days, he still dreams of it. He wouldn’t have been jet-setting and doing speaking engagements like Thomas, he doesn’t think, but the choice would have been his.

By the time he pulls up in front of Constance’s house he’s gone from a kind of angry energy, to just a bone-deep weariness. Grabbing the wine he’s brought; he makes his way to the front door. He’ll put in his appearance and get out as soon as he can; if he plays his cards right, he could be in his apartment by sundown.

He might have been, but he failed to account for Constance. D’Artagnan answers his knock and yells, “It’s Athos!” into the kitchen.

Over the din of the rest of the company Athos can hear Constance shout, “Athos, thank fuck; get in here!"

The distress call turns out to be in regards to the fact that Constance is trying to do everything herself. The thing Constance knows that no one else knows is that Athos can cook. He’s actually very good at it, but cooking for only himself just reminds him that he’s alone, so he’s long since fallen out of practice. All it takes is one glimpse of her, elbow-deep in the oven and desperately trying to keep the potatoes from boiling over, and it all comes back to him.

“Move,” he says. “And open the wine."

Constance pours them both a glass and hands him his as he tells her what to do with the pan of sausage that’s browning on the back burner. Ten minutes later, when they’re moving in a complicated dance around the tiny kitchen, she buries her face in the back of his shoulder and says, “Well, that settles it, you have to stay now.”

Four glasses later, dinner is on the table and everyone is seated. It’s d’Artagnan, Constance, Athos, and her sister on one side of the table and all four of her brothers on the other side. The meal is loud and raucous and only half of the dishes match. It couldn’t be more different from the dinner at Athos’ parents. Athos still wants to leave, to go home and hide in his DVR backlog until the weekend is over, but at least here he can relax into the conversation at little.  
After half an hour, he finds that his natural dry sense of humor has gotten louder and that normally sotto voce asides are loud enough for others to hear. Constance’s brothers think he’s _hilarious._ They keep pointing him at each other like a loaded weapon and then collapsing into piles of laughter when he launches into  
the new target.

By 8pm, Athos is on the back deck with d’Artagnan and Constance’s oldest brother, Mark. Athos and Mark are watching a tipsy d’Artagnan hold forth about the genius of James Joyce in the way that only idealistic new literature teachers can. Even the barbs Athos is throwing his way about books that only make sense when you’re drunk aren’t popping his enthusiastic little bubble. Mark, on the other hand, is holding on to the porch railing and wiping away tears of laughter. Athos isn’t used to being the funniest person in the room; it’s slightly unsettling, but he likes it.

It’s during a moment like that when the back door opens, and Porthos comes out to join them.

Athos hadn’t been expecting to see him; Constance hadn’t said a word, but between the icy civility of his parents’ house and the crush of people and noise here, he finds that this added stressor is barely a drop in the bucket. After several glasses of wine and keeping up with the conversations all day, he just doesn’t have the energy left to raise all of the defenses he normally has in place for Porthos.

Looking at d’Artagnan, Porthos says, “Constance says to tell you there’s pie, and if you don’t hurry she and Lila are going to eat it all."

Mark jumps up and races for the house. D’Artagnan trips him and goes barreling through the door first.

Porthos is watching Athos, seeing the almost relaxed set of his shoulders and how instead of looking coldly at Porthos, he just quirks one side of his mouth up as he watches d’Artagnan and Mark run into the kitchen and then turns his face back out to the trees. He reminds himself that he’d planned to be civil to Athos, to be polite. Tonight, though, full of friendship and good food and Constance’s stories of Athos getting potatoes in his eyelashes as he took over the mashing duties, Porthos ventures a smile. He holds up the wine bottle he’s brought with him. “Top you off?"

With an appreciative hum, Athos holds his glass out. “Thanks, I’ve had nearly enough to dull the memory of dinner with my parents and the pending beatification of my brother."

There will never be a good enough explanation for why Porthos says what he says next, never a reason that quite accounts for it, but it’s the moment everything shifts.

“Could be worse, they could have lectured you about the importance of academia and pure science and made you feel shitty for leaving it. Maybe insinuated that teaching is only for people who can’t hack it doing research."

Porthos trails off, embarrassed and completely shocked at himself. He’d had a glass or two in the kitchen with Constance while arguing with her about how she should be the one to come out here and announce dessert, but he never would have thought it was enough to loosen his tongue quite this much.

Athos’ eyes are wide; his mouth is open and the color has drained out of his face and is now rushing back in mostly at his cheeks and ears. When he can make words again, the first one he says is, “Fuck."

“Athos, I-"

“No. No, you’re exactly right.”

It’s Porthos’ turn to look poleaxed.

“That must have been exactly what I sounded like. I…” He can remember sitting at that table, in a quiet little restaurant Porthos had picked, and talking about how important academia was to him, the joy of research for research sake. He’d talked about how much he looked forward to getting back into the college environment, how teaching at this level wasn’t for him, wasn’t challenging and how frustrating it was to have to explain basic concepts to kids who would never learn to love numbers.

  
It had been a surprise, how angry Porthos had seemed. When he’d said, “I don’t know, I like science best when it’s doing something practical,” and then gotten more and more wound up talking about showing kids the science under ordinary things and giving them a reason why science should be important in their lives.

Athos remembers gesturing wildly with his fork, hearing his parents’ voices in his head talking about how sorry they were that his funding had fallen through, that they were sure he’d find another position if he just tried hard enough. He hears himself turning down their offers of inside connections and vowing to do it alone only to find that funding for his research was practically nonexistent.

All of that had been running through his head when he’d said, “That’s what’s making problems for people like me. Kids come out of classes like _yours_ thinking that science has to _do_ something. Then they grow up to run university departments and grant foundations, and they still think science has to _do_ something. They’re all too busy thinking about patents and productization to remember that DNA and MRIs are both the result of basic research!"

He hadn’t been watching Porthos’ fingers get tighter and tighter around his fork, had missed the way his eyes were narrowing. Athos had been so wrapped up in his own arguments that it cut like a knife to hear Porthos say, “Well if you’re so dead set on higher research, what are you doing teaching seventh-grade math?"

Athos remembers hearing a ringing in his ears, the voices of his parents, of Anne, telling him that no researcher worth his degree does actual teaching. He barely remembers asking “I beg your pardon?"

He remembers exactly Porthos saying, “All you’ve talked about is how amazing it is at that level, but you’re not there right now. I guess they must not want you there anymore, and now you’re stuck slumming here with the rest of us.”

When the ringing finally cleared from Athos’ ears he’d been standing. He’d dropped his napkin on his plate saying, “I think we’re finished here,” and walked out of the restaurant. He’d never looked back.

Now, here, on Constance’s deck, he can hear all of it in his head again, and though they’re in his voice, they’re his mother’s words. They’re Anne’s words and Thomas’ words, and he’d slung them at Porthos. He wonders if it had made Porthos feel as bad as Athos had earlier this evening. All of this spins in his head like a dust devil and when it settles there is only one thing left to say.

“I’m sorry."

Porthos, having turned to look back out into the trees during Athos’ crisis moment, says, “What?"

“I’m sorry. You love what you do; you love how you do it, everything I said must have sounded like an attack on that. It certainly felt like an attack when I heard it said to me earlier tonight."

“I… okay.”

Athos nods just once and looks back down at his glass, swirling it and watching the liquid cling to the sides.

“Athos? I… there’s more to say, and tonight’s not the time to do it, but… I would very much like if we could have a fresh start."

The softness around Athos’ eyes makes something warm settle in Porthos’ chest, makes him know he said the right thing. “I’d like that.”

It’s Porthos’ turn to nod and then turn to go inside. Athos hears the screen door squeak closed behind Porthos and maybe, just maybe; this evening was worth everything he had to go through to get to it.

By the time Athos makes it inside, Porthos has left for the night. Constance hands Athos a slice of pie and a fresh glass of wine and sends him into the living room. He finds a section on the couch that’s unclaimed by any of the brothers and lets the sound of their bickering wash over him. The pie settles in his belly, and he grows sleepy and warm. He closes his eyes and watches the light from the fireplace dance on the inside of his lids and the next thing he knows it’s morning.

No one else is awake, so Athos folds his blanket, starts the coffee maker and leaves quietly. He’s halfway home before he realizes that he’s smiling for no good reason.

It’s Saturday afternoon before either of them reaches out again. It’s a simple email from Porthos.

_Dear Athos,_

_This week is cupcakes, and I mentioned I had the perfect recipe for it. Will my place suit again or would you rather bake at yours?_

_Just let me know,_  
 _Porthos_

Athos sends a reply back saying that meeting at Porthos’ is fine, that the same time as last week works and that he’s looking forward to the recipe. He is, really. He’d always been able to cook, but baking is a science, and so he’s curious what Porthos has in store.

Monday is as rough as the first day back from a holiday usually is. The kids are bored, and Athos doesn’t have the energy to fight for their attention. Instead, he sits them down and has them do cubic inches measurements on various objects in the room and try to guess ahead of time which has greater volume. He spares a second to think about how five years ago he would have balked at the very idea of practical application busy work, but today it’s just the perfect speed for him and the kids.

Julia stops in on her way to lunch to ask how his Thanksgiving was. Athos thinks about drinking wine on Constance’s porch, staring out into the trees and hearing Porthos say they could use a new start. “It was good,” he says.

Shortly before the last period he sends a quick note to Porthos asking what he can bring that evening. The reply is fast and says it’s Athos’ turn to supply the wine. Whatever goes well with caramel.

At five minutes after, seven Athos is standing at Porthos’ door with a bottle of Malbec, under the assumption that fucking everything goes with caramel. Porthos takes it from him and ushers him into the kitchen. He gestures to the counter where Athos is surprised to see, in and among the basic baking ingredients, four boxes of boxed vanilla cake mix.

He turns to Porthos, “Is that allowed? Strictly speaking?"

One side of Porthos’ mouth curls up in a half-grin. “Trust me, no one’s gonna care. The cupcakes are just a delivery system for the frosting. Anyway, I thought, if you were up for it, I could leave the cupcakes to you and I could do the rest since it’s not really a two person job except for about thirty seconds in the middle?"

Athos nods. “Of course, that’s fine.” Porthos hands him the same apron as last week, white with blue ticking, and opens the wine. He checks the label and turns to Athos.

“Red?"

“You said-"

“I know. Don’t know what I was thinking, really. Fucking everything goes with caramel.” He gives that half-smile again, and Athos gives a startled blink.

“My thoughts precisely."

As with the week before, Porthos has laid out a mise en place for Athos so he sets to work mixing the boxed cake mixes one at a time. On a hunch, he adds some extra vanilla and another dash of salt. To Athos the silence in the kitchen isn’t a problem, it’s mostly companionable and Porthos has music playing again. Athos recognizes it this time; it’s Stevie Wonder, and it’s perfect music for baking.

On the other side of the kitchen, it looks as though Porthos is just staring into a pot of sugar. Every minute or so he pokes at it with a silicone spatula. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows that’s growing deeper.

“Just let me know when it’s the thirty seconds in the middle,” Athos says.

“Mm,” Porthos says. “It’ll be just a bit. I always forget how long it takes for dry method caramel to get going."

Nodding, Athos goes back to filling paper cupcake liners and sliding the first two trays into the oven.

After another few minutes, Porthos clears his throat, and it’s clear that he hasn’t just been staring into the pot all this time.

“Look, about what I said-“ he stops and rearranges his thoughts. “That wasn’t the right way to go about that. I shouldn’t have-"

“It’s probably the only way you could have,” Athos says. “And probably the only time, as well. Any other week, even a few hours later on that day, and I’d have been too far away from it, I wouldn’t have had their words so fresh."

“Still…"

“Porthos, please. If I walked into that dinner four years ago sounding anything like my parents did Thursday afternoon, then everything you said to me was perfectly justified. I’m only surprised you didn’t toss your drink in my face as well.” He takes a drink of his wine; it goes perfectly with vanilla cake batter.

“Did you throw your drink at them at Thanksgiving dinner?” Porthos asks.

Athos’ response is too fast for him to have thought it through for appropriateness. “No. They’ve still got a few years left in them, and if I’m civil, and Thomas gets hit by a bus, there might be an inheritance for me after all."

There’s a great bark of laughter from Porthos as he pokes at the sugar some more. With his first batch of cupcakes in the oven, Athos goes over to lean against the counter next to the stove. He can see that the sugar on the bottom of the pan has started melting; it’s already a gorgeous amber, and Porthos is folding unmelted sugar down to the lower layers.

“I always forget you’re funny,” Porthos says. There’s a quiet sigh from him and then, “That’s who I was expecting at dinner that night. That guy."

“And instead you got a man who had come straight from an afternoon at his parents’ house listening to a litany of his flaws and faults.” As he’s taking another drink, Athos thinks about the hours of discussion with them about how teaching was just another poor choice in a long line of poor choices. How he was in this position because of Anne, another terrible choice. They'd known he gambled and lost; he’d threatened to leave if the funding for his research wasn’t returned and the department head had thanked him for his time with them and accepted his resignation.

Athos couldn’t tell them that Michaels had been so eager to turn him down because he’d been sleeping with Athos’ fianceé for a year. He’d had confirmed that with his own eyes while coming in to pack up his office one afternoon. Eventually, and Athos hadn’t even had it in him to be surprised at that point, the funding had gone to her. He’d been so brittle, and every crack had been filled with the disapproving voices of his family.

"The— I won’t go into details but, I wasn’t in a fit state for company that night and you were on the receiving end of that. Then every time I saw you after that it all came back and I just had to leave."

Porthos folds the sugar again; it’s almost all liquid now and he takes a minute to slice the softened butter on the counter into chunks and pre-measure out the cream, stirring the vanilla into it. “You weren’t the only one not in a fit state for company,” he says, mostly to the pot.

“I’m sorry?"

“No, I am. I had my own reasons for not being in the best place that night. I… yeah, we don’t need to go into details, but it was the wrong night for me to be listening to someone talk about the amazing world of academia and getting lots of advanced degrees. It all felt like a punch, and I didn’t even stop to think that maybe you weren’t belittling me, that maybe there was something else going on. I just took it out on you. That night with words and every time after when I thought you were getting up and leaving so I wouldn’t get your poshness all dirty."

Porthos turns to look at Athos and for a minute they’re just staring at each other and then Porthos’ eyes fly wide, “Shit! It’s time. Now’s when I need you."

Athos ducks around to the other side, by the butter and the cream.

“I’m going to take this off the heat and keep stirring it and I need you to drop the butter in one chunk at a time.” Athos takes the pile of butter pats in his hand and every time Porthos says, “Now,” he drops one in. The sugar foams up, boiling in big frothy bubbles until the butter is all melted in.

“Now I’m going to keep stirring and you’re going to pour the cream in. Not too fast, but don’t stop.” Two minutes later Porthos is setting the pot on a trivet on the counter and pronouncing it caramel. He sprinkles some sea salt over the top and says it needs to cool before it’s good for the next bit. “I added warm caramel to buttercream once. Once was enough.”

The timer on the cupcakes dings and Athos takes them out and puts them on cooling racks. While he’s mixing the next batch, Porthos is creaming the butter in the mixer and talking about the difference between wet and dry method caramel. He talks about crystal formation and water’s effect on sugar and what purpose the butter serves.

As he’s putting the next batch of cupcakes into the oven, Athos talks about the geometric properties of crystals and how they were the first thing to make math seem real to him. He talks about watching snowflakes branch on a TV show and realizing that it was just the same pattern over and over. Porthos slowly incorporates the powdered sugar and milk and nods, agreeing in some places and says that as a kid he was always frustrated that he couldn’t prove that no two snowflakes are alike.

By the time the caramel has cooled enough to add it to the buttercream they’ve moved on to discussing the next project Porthos has planned out for his kids and Athos realizes that in addition to the practical demonstrations he’s always found frivolous, Porthos talks to them about the things in their lives that wouldn’t be possible without someone sitting around tinkering and thinking about things for no good reason.

Porthos takes a gallon zip-top bag and spoons the cooled buttercream into it, mushing it down into one corner and snipping the corner off. “I don’t care if they never want to think about science again after they leave my classroom, I’m going to make damn sure they know how much of their lives wouldn’t be possible without it. Do they think you can make sewers without science and math?"

He’s muttering under his breath as he pipes the frosting on to the cooled cupcakes. Athos comes along behind him, drizzling the remaining caramel sauce over the top of each mound of buttercream and sprinkling some sea salt over it, smiling all the while.

It’s close to midnight by the time they finish. Porthos lets him try one cupcake, and Athos is glad he didn’t get to them earlier, or they’d be missing an offering for this week’s sale. Catching the look on Athos’ face, Porthos says, “I told you.” Athos just nods.

Handing Athos is coat and scarf from the closet, Porthos says, “Listen, I know it’s too late to salvage that date, but I enjoyed finally seeing that funny guy again."

Athos wraps his scarf around his head to give himself an excuse to cover his cheeks for a minute. “And I enjoyed getting to spend some time with that interesting guy who’s curious about everything."

“We could both use a friend like those guys.” Porthos holds out his hand and Athos shakes it. “I’ll see you in the lobby tomorrow after school,” Porthos says.

Athos gives a cautious smile. “If not sooner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The recipe this week is one I've made dozens of times, but always for company or for a party because I can't be held responsible for my behavior if left alone in the house with these. It's not one recipe it's a hodge-podge, so here you go:
> 
> The fic says boxed cake mix, which works great when I'm making these for my idiot friends, but the first time I made it I was trying to impress someone and I used [this cupcake recipe.](http://www.the-baker-chick.com/2014/05/ultimate-salted-caramel-cupcakes/)
> 
> This is my [favorite buttercream recipe.](http://www.wilton.com/recipe/Buttercream-Icing) We're a Wilton house (my mom used to decorate cakes professionally when I was a kid so there was Wilton shit everywhere) but when I do this one I use all butter instead of half butter/half shortening.
> 
> And this is [my favorite dry-method caramel.](http://wickedgoodkitchen.com/homemade-salted-caramel-sauce-best-ever/) It tastes fantastic and I'm fairly sure it keeps in the fridge for a month. I have no idea, though, as mine never lasts that long.


	4. Week 3 - The Lemon Pound Cake Pucker Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Constance is convinced she has us beat for this afternoon. She offered a wager. I didn't take her up on it. I’m confident in our offering, of course, but I’ve read enough Greek poetry to know better."
> 
> Laughing, Porthos says, “I wouldn’t have reckoned you for a man who thinks the fates have any say in his life."
> 
> Athos just smiles, something tugging at his mind, “I would have either, but I’m learning not to second-guess the universe."

Athos gets to school on Tuesday morning a few minutes early. He’s watching as Constance pulls up just after he does, parking next to him as he’s gathering his things from the back seat. Swinging her door shut and hitching her bag over her shoulder, she looks at his face and cocks her head. “Are you alright?"

“Of course,” he says. “Why?"

“Nothing. You just seem… something’s different."

Athos wraps his scarf around his neck and hooks his satchel over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re imagining things, Constance. Come on, or we’ll both be late.” She drops it with a roll of her eyes, but the entire walk into the building she keeps shooting sidelong looks at him. Athos doesn’t say anything about his evening, about the thawing of relations with Porthos, she’ll figure it out for herself this afternoon and he isn’t in the mood to discuss it right now.

They keep up a conversation about their offerings for this week’s sale until she breaks off to head down the hall to her room. She gives him another curious smile and he just smiles in return. Eventually, she just waves and goes on her way. He’s still smiling when he walks past the media center and sees Porthos coming out with a pile of copies in one hand.

Seeing Athos, Porthos fumbles his papers just a bit but manages to hold on to them as they continue walking. This is the first time they’ve done this in years, the first time they’ve actually met in the halls and not just given each other a chilly look and kept walking. It’s a little unusual, but it doesn’t feel wrong. Porthos smiles. “Morning."

“It is.” There’s a tiny pause that could grow awkward and spiral out, but Athos saves himself by saying, “Constance is convinced she has us beat for this afternoon. She offered a wager."

Porthos raises his eyebrows and Athos continues, “I didn’t take her up on it. I’m confident in our offering, of course, but I’ve read enough Greek poetry to know better."

Laughing, Porthos says, “I wouldn’t have reckoned you for a man who thinks the fates have any say in his life."

Athos just smiles, something tugging at his mind, “I would have either, but I’m learning not to second-guess the universe."

Porthos turns to go down the hallway to his room. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” he says, and waves as he walks into his room.

Athos nods back and when he turns to keep walking down the main hall he sees d’Artagnan standing at a bulletin board, stapler in one hand and flyers in the other. He’s staring at Athos and his mouth is hanging open. The tiniest beginnings of a sly smile start creeping in around d’Artagnan’s eyes. Athos cuts him off. “Not one word. And close your mouth; you look simple."

He makes the rest of the walk to his room with his smile buried in his scarf.

The rest of the day feels like so many others. There’s the slow, creeping erosion of focus that always happens in the weeks between Thanksgiving and the winter break, but that’s something he’s grown used to over the years. He uses the enthusiasm of his brightest kids to try and rouse the others, that should work for another few days. Next week he’ll think of something else.

Athos’ final block is his planning period so he has the freedom to duck out a few minutes before the last bell to grab his phone charger from the car. On his way back in he hears someone calling his name and turns to see Aramis standing in front of the school, waving and smiling. At Athos. He can’t help but grin in return. Aramis still makes him feel nervous, but since that morning of coffee and conversation with him and Julia, Athos hopes he won’t be quite so tongue tied.

There’s a second where Athos isn’t quite sure how to greet him. By last name? As Julia’s father? Unbidden, the image of him chewing on the pen leaps to mind, and it’s almost a sigh when Athos says, “Aramis."

“I thought you’d be inside getting ready for the sale. It’s Tuesday, right? What’s on the table this week?"

Athos rakes his fingernails through his beard and says, “Cupcakes this week. Mr. Du Vallon’s recipe this time and let me assure you, it is worth coming into the lobby for, if you weren’t already planning on it. I was only allowed one, but I dreamed of it later."

The words coming out of his mouth are almost smooth, and Athos is surprised to hear them. Then again, if he can shake hands and smile with Porthos, anything is possible.

“Sounds great.” Aramis rakes his hand through his hair. “We’ve been by the coffee shop a few times while we were out on errands, I think Julia keeps hoping to see you. She loved getting to see you out in the ‘real world.’” Aramis’ eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, and Athos feels his heart stutter.

“I enjoyed seeing her as well. Tell her that once the holidays are over I’ll be back in there more regularly. I find that between personal obligations and trying to prepare for the semester end, I don’t get down there as often as I like. And she’ll still see me every day in school.”

Aramis looks almost disappointed. “Ah, but I won’t.” Athos hopes to god he isn’t actually blushing like he thinks he is. “I suppose I’ll just have to make my own opportunities, then."

“Oh?” Athos wants to kick himself. He’d been doing so well with sounding like an adult with a reasonable vocabulary and the ability to put together sentences.

Aramis puts his hands in the pockets of his wool overcoat and smiles, cocking his head slightly and looking at Athos from under a few messy curls. “I would like to get to know you better, Athos. Would you let me buy you lunch?"

Athos gets two fists around his self-control and manages to not stand there blinking in amazement. Instead, he says, “I would like that very much."

Part of him wonders what this means for Porthos’ dinner with Aramis, but he reminds himself that it’s just a date, nothing serious, and oh, he wants this date so much.

Aramis grins and pats his shoulder. “It’s Julia’s weekend with her mother but I’m covering a shift for a friend on Saturday. Sunday afternoon?"

“Yes, that would be perfect.” Athos smiles.

Aramis hands his phone to Athos. “Send yourself a text so I have your number. We’ll figure out when and where to meet.” As Athos is handing the phone back a moment later Aramis says, “I’m looking forward to it, Athos."

The sound of his own name shouldn’t make Athos feel like this, but something about how Aramis says it makes Athos’ belly hot and tight. He’s saved from embarrassing himself by the ringing of the final bell and, a few seconds later, the first of the students coming out through the front doors.

“I have to-"

“You have to go sell cupcakes. Jules and I will come see you.” He smiles again, and Athos hopes his smile in return says ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you better’ and not ‘have you been struck on the head by something heavy?'

The lobby is full of students and Porthos is already doing brisk business in cupcakes. Athos doesn’t miss that there are several of them sitting in a box behind d’Artagnan and Constance’s table. “I’m sorry I’m late. How can I help?"

Porthos spends a few seconds giving Athos the rundown on where he’s put the change, his price points for one, three, and five cupcakes, and his assurance that while Louis and Anne have brought chocolate with raspberry filling, he and Athos still have this in the bag. The next ten minutes go by in a blur of money changing hands, excited students and the somehow seamless dance of the two of them interacting with each other.

Julia’s voice is cheery and bright over the rest of the crowd. “Hi!” Porthos gives her a huge smile; she’s a great kid.

“Heya, Jules. Did you come by for a caramel fix?” Porthos grins at her and then looks past her to smile at Aramis. “And heya to you, too. Get my text about dinner?"

Aramis smiles back, and Porthos can see in Julia’s smile hints of those same curling lips and high cheekbones. “I did, yes. Friday sounds great, and I love a good steak. When should I meet you?"

“Reservation is for eight, if that works?” At Aramis’ surprised laugh, Porthos shrugs. “I decided I’d think positive and make the reservation just in case."

Aramis picks up two cupcakes and passes the cash over to Porthos. “Eight is perfect; I’ll meet you there."

Porthos grins and takes the money. “The school thanks you for your support. And I thank you, too. I haven’t looked forward to a Friday night this much in a long time.”

Handing one of the cupcakes to Julia, Aramis laughs. “You are far too charming. Come on, Jules. Let’s let these good men get back to their cupcake peddling.” Julia waves over her shoulder as they walk away and both Porthos and Athos wave back.

Athos listens to them plan their date and thinks about his own plans with Aramis. He supposes some people would call this a competition; they might suggest that he has to start thinking about how to win out over Porthos. All Athos can think is that he’s had his fate changed by behind-the-scenes machinations, had his choices and plans manipulated by people who only had their own agendas in mind, and he’d rather die that do that himself. Aramis has his own agency, his own plans and ideas. Athos is just going to enjoy his lunch date and hope for more. This isn’t his choice. He hopes Porthos knows it isn’t his either.

Porthos watches something pass over Athos’ face and for a second he’s worried that his dating Aramis (and oh, he hopes it’s more than one date) will undo all the progress he and Athos have made in the last week. He’s relieved when instead of an icy look of disapproval, Athos just smiles at them and says, “Julia’s a wonderful student. I’m going to miss her next year."

“Me too, and not just because it would be nice to see her dad at conference night.” He grins and Athos gives him a quiet smile in return.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Porthos laughs loud enough for it to bounce around the lobby walls and the teachers sitting at every other table just stare at the two of them. Looking out through the windowed door of the principal’s office, Ninon wonders if she knew quite what she was getting into when she assigned the two of them to work together. This could backfire horribly if the two of them become a united front.

She sips at her coffee and wonders if that’s better or worse than the chilly stare-downs at staff meetings. Better, she thinks, watching the two of them grin at each other. Definitely better.

  
Friday night finds Porthos staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, straightening his tie and being more nervous than he’d expected. He’s meeting Aramis at his favorite restaurant, a little family place that does amazing simple food. He’s confident about the food, the place; he’s just nervous about the date part of this. Since the disaster with Athos four years ago Porthos has only been out on a handful of dates and while they all went fine, one or two even successful enough to warrant a second date, none of them went well enough for a third.

Screwing up his courage, Porthos stuffs a brightly colored hanky in his jacket pocket and heads out.

Aramis is waiting for him when he walks through the door of the restaurant and Porthos stops dead as it hits him all over again how beautiful this man is. He’s wearing a deep purple v-necked pullover, thin enough to cling to the shape of his body, but warm enough that he’s not wearing anything else under it. Porthos suspects it’s cashmere, but he wants to bury his nose in Aramis' neck and rub his face against the fabric to find out for sure.

When Aramis stands to greet him, Porthos watches his trousers stretch and pull against the muscles of his thighs and hs to work to maintain eye contact. The hostess has been waiting for Porthos, apparently because as soon as she sees that Aramis’ date is here she escorts them to their table. Aramis falls into step beside him, and Porthos’ brain is trying to get past his sheer physical presence but all he can think is that Aramis smells fucking fantastic.

The hostess leaves them with menus and the wine list, and as soon as she’s gone Aramis leans across the table to put his hand over Porthos’. “I’m really glad you asked me to come, thank you.” His eyes sweep over Porthos’ body, “And given that she’s nicely left us with menus I’ll refrain from saying that you look good enough to eat.” Aramis glances down at the menu but flicks an amused glance back up at Porthos and one side of his mouth quirks up.

Porthos laughs, and most of the tension drains out of him. They order their meals, Aramis nodding in approval as Porthos asks for his steak as rare as they can make, and given that they both have to drive they get a glass of wine each but elect not to split a bottle. The talk is small at first, how their days were and what work was like. Porthos talks about trying to keep the kids minds off their upcoming vacation but all the while he’s watching Aramis toying with the fork and thinking about those beautiful long fingers curled over his shoulders.

He shakes his head just a fraction of an inch and comes back to the conversation. “What about you? Do you find that fixing people up is more or less rewarding if no one’s actually trying to shoot at you at the same time?”

Aramis laughs. “Well, to be honest, no one was shooting at me much then, either. The field hospitals are out of active combat zones. I do have a few memories of chopper evacs that might still give me nightmares from time to time.” He grows quiet and spins his knife on its tip as he continues. “I thought that the work at home would be easier somehow, but it’s not. It’s almost harder. Out in the field at least people think they’re there for a purpose; back here it’s so much… stupidity. Accidents and drunk teenagers and naked malice.” He shakes it off as much as he can. “I find my chess skills come in just as handy, though,” Aramis says with a bright smile.

Porthos wants to tell him that everything he wants to share is fine. He wants to say that- he just gives up and says it. “Hey, I was there, I know the kinds of things you saw and I know what stupid drunk teenagers can do to each other.” He puts his hand around Aramis’ where it’s still gripping the knife handle. Porthos rubs his thumb over Aramis’ knuckles. “Never feel like you have to hold anything back.” When Aramis gives him a grateful smile, Porthos says, “Chess, eh?”

“Yeah, chess. My best friend taught me while we were over there. Francisco is this great hulk of a man. You look at him, and you’d think ’This man still bangs rocks together to make fire,’ but he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.” Aramis’ fingers are toying with the corner of his napkin, and that smile is back. Porthos finds he’s wondering what he has to do to get Aramis to smile that way about him.

The server brings their food and Aramis flashes her an enormous grin. “Thank you,” he says and she blinks a few times and stammers out a reply and flees to the kitchen.

Porthos grins at him. “That smile should be classified as a weapon. Could bring down whole armies.”

Aramis focuses his gaze on Porthos and it’s like being under a targeting scope. “Ah, but can it bring down you?"

“Not before I finish my steak,” Porthos lies.

Aramis’ chuckle is fond and dirty, “Noted. What was I… Oh, chess. We’d have these times of intense activity that would just wipe us out completely, but in between there were long stretches where we’d have organized everything and labeled everything and if we didn’t keep busy we’d have gone mad. Francisco and I had gotten to know each other early on and we decided to take those times as lesson periods. Of a sort."

Spearing his greens, Porthos says, “Trading information?"

“Yes,” Aramis says. “Exactly. He taught me chess and military history and philosophy; I gave him lessons in reading music, some computer coding, and basic anatomy."

Porthos swallows the steak he’s chewing and asks, “He wasn’t a medic, too?"

“Nope, chopper pilot. To round everything out I’d break out my liberal Catholic school training, and he’d bring out his college theology classes and we’d have great, loud debates about comparative religion.” Aramis drinks some of his wine and smiles. "If we weren’t careful we’d bring unsuspecting bystanders along for the ride. At one point, Francisco got someone to mail him an e-book of The Iliad. He forwarded it around, and we had a book club, all of us huddled over our phones reading. I know it’s not considered the done thing to say this about an active war zone, but we had some great times."

“I know exactly what you mean,” Porthos says. “You’re not supposed to say that you laughed over there. That you made friends or had good days. It’s supposed to all be awful. What people don’t know is that the laughs and the friends and the good days are what makes it so we can get through the awful."

Aramis drops his forearms to the table, his fork and knife still, and leans forward. “That’s it exactly. I’ve never had anyone understand it before, and I’ve certainly never had anyone say it back to me in a way that didn’t make me feel terrible. Thank you, Porthos."

Porthos raises his glass to Aramis. “All part of the service.” He grins.

“I shall remember to tip well,” Aramis says. “Okay, enough talk about war zones, book clubs or not."

“Julia said you guys had an interesting Thanksgiving,” Porthos says. “Something about a gravy fire?"

Aramis rolls his eyes. “The official position is that it was a grease fire. Which got started while her mother was making the gravy. It was not a gravy fire."

“It was a gravy fire."

Aramis smirks. “It was a little gravy fire.” He laughs. “For all her wonderful qualities, Isabel is a terrible cook. The difficulty is that she knows she’s a terrible cook but she keeps thinking this time will be different. It’s like Einstein’s definition of insanity."

Porthos swallows and when he speaks his voice is lower than he intends it to be. “Careful, it’s not nice to dangle Einstein references in front of the science teacher when he has to behave himself."

Aramis’ answering smile is slow and wicked. “Noted.” He finishes his steak, washing it down with the last of his wine. “In the end it was a very boring fire. Paul put it out and consoled Isabel, and I didn’t even get to bandage anyone up. I did, however, get to cook the gravy and listen to Paul make really terrible smoke and fire puns all night long. So it wasn’t a total loss."

“Given the fire and puns are you sure you don’t want to rethink saying you wouldn’t object to part of that relationship?” Porthos asks, smiling.

“Oh, I’d do it specifically _for_ the fire and puns,” Aramis says in a conspiratorial whisper.

Porthos can only laugh at the lewd eyebrow wiggle that accompanies the whisper. When the laughing stops he says, “I”m not sure which is most impressive, that you’d be willing to be in a relationship with your ex, or that you’d be willing to be in a relationship with your ex and her boyfriend."

“Ah, well I’ve done both before.” At Porthos’ look he says, “Well not exactly. But I’ve certainly been in relationships with people I’ve broken up with once before. Or twice before. Sometimes I’m slow to learn.” He grins. “And in a couple of special circumstances I’ve been in relationships with more than one person. Sure, the logistics are more difficult but-"

“But I find that the additional snuggling more than makes up for it,” Porthos says.

“Absolutely.” Aramis’ eyes are bright in the candlelight and Porthos can’t stop staring at him. His hair keeps picking up the light in little glints of gold and that sweater still looks so deliciously warm and soft.

The server comes back and asks if they want dessert and they both decline. Aramis can’t linger, he’s got an early shift in the morning, and having a fair number of the leftover cupcakes, Porthos never wants to see another dessert for as long as he lives. Instead, they spend another half an hour talking about all manner of things. Aramis talks about what he’s planning to get Julia for Christmas and Porthos talks about how he first got the idea to do baking demonstrations as part of a chemistry class and the conversation is just so easy.

Porthos feels ridiculous for having been nervous at all until Aramis says he has to get home and Porthos offers to walk him to his car and suddenly the nerves are back.

As they’re walking through the cold, dark parking lot, Aramis hooks his arm through Porthos’. “I have to tell you something, just because I want to be completely up front. I have a lunch date with Athos on Sunday."

Porthos pats Aramis on the arm. “This is our first date, Aramis. And that’s the point of dating, to get to know someone else. An exclusive relationship might be in our future, but it isn’t here yet. Still, I appreciate you telling me.” They’re standing next to Aramis’ car now, and Porthos can see their breath in the winter air. “I do have one question, though."

Aramis cocks his head. “What’s that?"

“Does that mean I can’t kiss you goodnight?"

Aramis grins and snakes his arms up around Porthos’ neck. “I would be heartbroken if you didn’t.” Porthos settles his hands on Aramis’ hips and leans in to kiss him.

HIs lips are warm, but his nose is a spot of bright cold on Porthos’ cheek. Porthos smiles into the kiss and brings his hands up to cradle Aramis’ head in his palms. He winds his fingers into Aramis’ hair and feels Aramis lick out, testing Porthos’ mouth only to feel it open under his. The kiss grows deep and hot, but Porthos pulls back before it can get properly filthy. They’re standing in the freezing air and his ears are going numb and Aramis has to be at work in the morning.

Repeating those facts is the only thing that makes it possible for him to put a kiss on Aramis’ nose and say, “Can we do this again?"

“Please,” Aramis breathes against his mouth. “I’ll text you when I have my schedule for next week?"

Porthos presses another kiss to his mouth and says, “I’ll be on the lookout for it."

  
As he’s pulling into his driveway, Porthos feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He cuts off the motor and checks the screen.

_I had a great time, thank you._

He types back, _Thank you for accepting. Can’t wait to do it again._

_It’s a date. Only next time let’s start the kissing earlier._

When Porthos falls asleep he’s still smiling.

  
On Saturday morning, Athos is elbow-deep in his crossword when he gets a message from Aramis. It’s just a little note asking if they’re still on for the next day for lunch and suggesting a time and place to meet. Athos, still slightly boggled that Aramis has asked him out in the first place, agrees to both and says he’s looking forward to it. He quickly looks up the website for the restaurant just to get a sense of the dress code and then vows not to spend the rest of the day fretting about the upcoming date. He’s never been so glad to have a difficult crossword to work.  
  
When Sunday comes, Athos stands and stares at his closet in absolute despair. He finally gives up and sends a note to Constance. She calls back and says, “Try that dark green button-down and those really dark rinse jeans."

“The _really_ dark rinse jeans? As opposed to?"

“Athos, you own jeans in at least four rinses, don’t act like an ass.” There’s a long pause and Constance gives a sigh that falls between fond and disgusted. “The ones that look not quite black but darker than navy."

Athos says “Ah,” and plucks them from the hanger. “And why am I wearing these?"

“They make your legs look very nice. And the green shirt sets off your eyes and makes your freckles stand out.” There’s another long pause and Constance says, “I’m dating someone else, Athos, I’m not blind."

“You’re a wonder, Constance. How can I thank you?"

“Be happy, Athos. Have a good time.”

Athos smiles, he’ll try to do both if for no other reason than because he promised Constance.

He gets to the restaurant a few minutes before Aramis and gets them a table by the window. It’s a perfect late fall day, crisp and bright, and from inside they can enjoy the sight of the harbor, of the boats sitting at their docks, without having to let the cold sting their cheeks.

The server brings him some water and Athos orders coffee as well. He pulls his book from his pocket and sinks into its pages.

Aramis comes breezing up to the table a handful of minutes later in a flurry of dark curls and flowing scarf. He’s in a dark blue henley that’s pulling across his chest and hugging his arms and Athos has to work not to stare. Aramis’ jeans are clearly old favorites, and with good reason. They’re molded to his legs and ass and the sliver of skin that shows at his waist as he unwinds his scarf is sinful.

Athos stands to greet him and Aramis leans in, pressing his cold cheek to Athos’ warm one. “I’m so sorry I’m late, the parking was a bit harder than I expected.” He’s pulling away as he finishes talking but Athos can still feel Aramis’ breath against his ear and the spark of his skin against Athos’ own.

“Not at all,” Athos says, “I never go anywhere without a book, so I was well settled."

“A man after my own heart,” Aramis grins as he drapes his scarf and coat over the chair to his left. “What are you reading?”

Athos holds up his book, Thomas Merton’s _The Seven Storey Mountain_ , and Aramis smiles, hand over his heart. "We have what we seek, it is there all the time, and if we give it time, it will make itself known to us."

Blinking, Athos cocks his head. Aramis smiles. “That’s a quote from him. I’m afraid you’ve accidentally managed to bring one of my favorite books."

Having just started it, Athos doesn’t have much of an opinion. That doesn’t stop Aramis from engaging him in a fascinating discussion of asceticism and the role of the community of faith in the modern world. Athos finds himself pulled in, he has always been unable to resist well-informed passion.

When the server comes back to drop off menus Aramis’ hands are flying as he discusses Merton’s objective investigation of other faiths and its role in his own developing ideology. Five minutes later the server comes back only to find the two of them in the midst of a quietly intense exchange about non-violent protest and the position of the community of faith in civil rights movements.

They take a break to put in their order and Athos asks, “I grabbed this on a whim in a used book store, how did you happen upon it?” It seems that spirited conversation has given Athos the footing he needs to overcome any lingering nerves and get past the last of his tendency to be tongue-tied around Aramis.

“Catholic school, believe it or not. My theological literature teacher was a big fan of his, though she had definite opinions about his nosing around Buddhism before he died."

“Well, if you ever tire of your current career you have a bright future ahead of you as a literature teacher. Not every student can be won over by enthusiasm, but it gets more than you might expect.” He smiles and hopes his face shows how much he’s enjoying this day.

Their food comes, Athos has chosen a tomato bisque and toast points with melted gruyere while Aramis is happily staring at an enormous reuben with a sharp pickle on the side. Aramis thanks the server, his grin is flirty but sincere, and the young man smiles back and nearly trips over a nearby chair.

He turns to see Athos staring at him with an eyebrow arched. “That’s hardly fair now, is it?” Aramis only grins harder.

“So tell me, do you always have a treatise on faith tucked into your pocket when you go out?"

Athos smiles. “No, but I finished the crossword last night."

“That’s a shame,” Aramis says. “I adore a good puzzle.” He takes an enormous bite of his sandwich and closes his eyes in pleasure. “This is fantastic. Exactly what I wanted.”

  
Athos dips his toast point into his soup and asks, “Did you study theology?"

“Not formally, it’s a strictly recreational pursuit. No, I studied nursing while I was in the Army."

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Athos asks, spooning up some more of the soup and trying not to roll his eyes in bliss. It really is fantastic food.

“Not quite, I’m an EMT.” At Athos’ expression, Aramis says, “I could have come back and had a nice quiet nursing career. I might still. But I’ve spent years being the kind of person who can help under the worst kinds of situations. If there’s still a place for me to put that experience to use I’d rather do that. I sat on too many helicopters taking wounded out of the field to not use what I’ve learned. If I can.” He trails off and Athos thinks he sees a blush pinking the tips of Aramis’ ears.

“I seem to have found another passion of yours.”

“Sorry, I get carried away sometimes."

“Not at all,” Athos says, swiping at his mouth with the linen cloth. “The world needs more people who have something they feel that fiercely about.” He stops for a second and a wistful smile creeps in around the corners of his eyes. “When I was still on a university faculty I’d get lost in a problem for days. I would eventually look up to realize that I was starving and that I’d been subsisting on coffee and protein bars that my gir— research assistant would leave for me.” He shakes his head to clear it a bit. “I understand and appreciate that kind of reaction, never apologize for it. Not to me."

Aramis swallows a bite of his sandwich and smiles. “So I’m not the only one who likes a good puzzle."

Athos smiles. “No, not at all. It’s the thing I miss most about academia, the freedom to just sink into a problem. To solve something just for the joy of it. Julia does that, by the way. She digs into problems just because she likes them, not just because the solution will be practically useful. I imagine, now that I know you better, that she learned that from you."

Aramis coughs a bit. “That’s unlikely, but it would be an interesting argument for heredity over environment.” When Athos looks confused, Aramis goes on. “I wasn’t around while Julia was growing up. Not much, anyway.” He sighs, wistful himself, now. “Isabel, her mother, and I were high school sweethearts. We had a… well friendly is the wrong word, but we had as nice a breakup as is possible, just before I left for basic training.”

Twisting his spoon in his soup, Athos asks, “And Julia?"

Aramis shrugs one shoulder. “Isabel didn’t find out she was pregnant until after I’d left, and by then it was too late for me to leave and come back. I’m not sure she would have let me. I sent money, I sent letters, but I was a selfish adventure-seeker at that point. Isabel would have been right to not let me come back. We’d both have been miserable and Julia would have grown up in that.”

Around a mouthful of his sandwich, he says, “When I got closer to my discharge date I wrote saying that I like to get to know Julia better, to know her beyond pictures and cards. I’d always sent letters to her at her parents’ house, I didn’t even know where they were living.”

His little laugh is broken and rueful and Athos smiles at him. “She told me to call when I could and we’d discuss it. That call was… obstacle courses in the mud are easier than that call. Isabel is a consummate mama bear, it’s amazing. Jules is so lucky. She made sure I knew what I’d be getting into, that there would be commitments and time involved, that I’d have to do the hard work and not just be a dad who takes his kid to the arcade and brings them back home all sugared up. She did her very best to scare the pants off me. Then, for the final coup de grâce, she told me where they were living. It’s hundreds of miles from our families, from anything I’m familiar with. Then she left me to think about it for a week, wouldn’t actually let me answer on that call."

Aramis wipes his mouth and smiles. “When I said I was still interested she said we’d give it a shot and. Yeah. It’s been an adjustment and it hasn’t always been easy but god, she’s such a great kid. Now that I’m here, now that I get to see her as often as I do, I can’t imagine any other life.” Athos almost thinks that he can’t imagine uprooting his life like that, but of course, he can. After he’d left the university he’d had to move, to start a new career, to build his life over again.

Aramis takes a sip of his water and a clever smile plays at the edges of his mouth. “Even the dreaded parent-teacher conferences have had unexpected benefits."

Athos hopes he isn’t actually blushing, he hopes it just feels like his face is growing hot.

“It seems like things are working out for the best, then,” Athos says.

“Mm, yes.” Aramis chews and swallows. “Isabel and her boyfriend have even taken me in under their wing a bit; I spent Thanksgiving there. Paul could easily resent me but instead he does his best to work with me. I joked with Porthos that I’d get in on that relationship if I thought Isabel would give me half a chance."

He’s still laughing as Athos chokes on his soup a bit. He’s not sure which boggles him more, the idea of dating an already existing couple or dating your ex again. He asks, “You wouldn’t though?"

“Oh no. Isabel wouldn’t have me and I’m fairly sure that Paul doesn’t kiss anyone capable of growing a beard.” Aramis’ eyes are twinkling and Athos is utterly charmed. Why would anyone not want to kiss this man? “Is that a problem you have?"

Athos isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to being flirted with by someone this beautiful. “It is not,” he says, and it sounds so formal but Aramis is laughing so it must be okay.

“Good, because I’m hoping to get one before the afternoon is over."

The server clears their plates and the two of them settle back in their chairs. Savoring their drinks and their conversation. They talk about Julia and all the plans Aramis has for Christmas with her. Athos loves hearing Aramis talk about his family, how proud he is of his daughter and how he calls home to tell his mother all about it.

Aramis talks about work and the best and worst calls; he listens while Athos talks about the papers he wants to write and they discuss the various tropical diseases Athos could pretend to have to get out of Christmas dinner with his parents. Aramis drove while Athos walked, so after they pay the bill and leave, they end up standing next to Aramis’ car and talking for almost another half hour. It’s so easy and Athos is starting to not be surprised by that. Eventually, Aramis leans closer, Athos can see his chin brushing against his scarf as he talks.

“I have to go, but... I had a wonderful time, Athos."

“So did I,” Athos says because it’s the truth. He can’t remember a meal he’s enjoyed this much in years.

“I’d like to do this again."

Athos swallows. “As would I."

Aramis leans closer and Athos just lets his eyes fall shut and waits. The first brush of Aramis’ mouth over his own is soft and dry, and for a few moments, it stays that way. Just a back and forth stroke of Aramis’ lips against Athos’ and a soft hum in Aramis’ throat. When Athos sighs out a breath, Aramis seems to take it as a sign. Athos can feel Aramis’ mouth soften, his jaw loosen, and Athos strokes his hands up over the front of Aramis’ coat.

Mouth falling open, Aramis moans softly and the kiss gets dirty fast. The sun is beating on the back of Athos’ head but everywhere his body is touching Aramis’ is hotter. Aramis gets two fistfuls of Athos’ coat and tugs him closer. Athos sighs again, pure pleasure, and feels Aramis’ teeth dig into his lower lip, tugging slightly before he pulls back, breaking the kiss.

“I really do have to go."

“I know."

“Next Sunday?"

“Yes.” _Yes_ , Athos thinks. _So many Sundays, please_.

 

Porthos and Athos have been sending emails back and forth, Porthos even poked his head into Athos’ room to confirm, so when Monday night rolls around they already have a recipe lined up (Athos’ choice again) and most of the supplies laid in. They’re at Athos’ house this week; he’s managed to stock up on the things they’ve used at Porthos’ house and he’s ready for company. It’ll be the most his kitchen has been used since he moved in. He finds he’s looking forward to it.

The doorbell rings as Athos is setting the ingredients for their recipe out on the worktop. He opens the door to find Porthos standing there, bundled in a dark peacoat and red scarf, and holding a paper bag. Athos takes the bag and ushers him in. “I have everything we’ll need,” he says.

“I know,” Porthos says, unbuttoning his coat and unwinding his scarf, "but I figured if I’m not hosting I should bring the drinks. No wine tonight, it was a beer kind of day.” Athos points to an open coat hook for Porthos to hang his things. He’s still wearing the dark trousers and wine-colored sweater he’d worn to work. The sweater is clings to him a bit at his shoulders and around his biceps as Porthos drapes his scarf over the wrought iron hook.

As they into the kitchen, Athos opens the top of the bag and pokes his nose in. Porthos said ‘beer’ but what he’s actually brought is a couple of growlers of oatmeal stout from the local brewpub. It’s a heavy beer, but it’s perfect for cold, windy nights like this one. “Thank you,” Athos says, “this will be perfect."

He puts the beer out on the counter and pulls two pint glasses from the cupboard. “I’ll let you pour while I pull out the rest of tonight’s ingredients.” Athos reaches into the pantry and to get the flour and sugar. There is already a pile of lemons on the counter.

“So,” Porthos says, “pound cake."

“Mm. Lemon pound cake,” Athos says.

“Another of your mother’s recipes?” Porthos asks, and if he’s laughing at Athos it barely shows around his eyes.

Athos doesn’t laugh, but he returns the same barely amused look Porthos has. “Sadly, no. This one comes from the café I go to for coffee on the weekends. They have a lemon pound cake that’s never dry. I asked how they managed that and they explained the secret."

Porthos waits a second and asks, “And are you going to explain it?"

“Patience,” Athos says. “Patience."

Rolling his eyes, Porthos smiles and pops the gasket on one of the growlers. He pours them each a pint of the stout and hands Athos his. After a deep pull at his beer, Athos waves towards the speaker dock in the corner of the kitchen. “As always, you are in charge of the music."

Porthos smiles and while Athos is getting his tablet set up with the recipe, he queues up some Otis Redding and pushes the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.

Athos hands him a bowl of lemons and a microplane zester. "Please render those into zest and juice,” and turns back to the counter.

As Athos is picking up a stick of butter to peel off the wrapper, Porthos says, “Right, I’m yours to command, then,” and chuckles warmly.

Athos hears the words jerks his head up, Porthos isn’t even looking at him, just smiling and running a lemon over the zester, but the room has gone slightly off-kilter for Athos. He’s watching Porthos’ arms and shoulders move and listening to him hum along to the music and something, something is very different.

He tears the wrappers from the rest of the butter and puts it in the mixer, feeling his jaw clenching and wondering what on earth just happened. While the mixer is running Athos pours in the sugar, leaving them to cream together while he combines dry ingredients.

Across the kitchen, Porthos looks up from squeezing the juice of one of the lemons into a bowl and sees Athos, focused and intent, weighing flour on a scale. He can’t help but smile, of course Athos is using a scale. When they couldn’t agree on anything else, they agreed that flour gets weighed.

Athos, too, is still wearing the shirt he wore to work, the tie is gone, though, the collar open and just a sliver of white t-shirt showing. Porthos wonders if, like him, Athos always takes his tie off first thing when he gets home. The cuffs on his navy blue button-down are rolled up to his elbows and his forearms are flexing as he sifts the flour together with the rest of the dry ingredients. Porthos can see the muscles moving under the skin and finds he can’t actually tear his gaze away. He’s saved only by the fact that he manages to squeeze the lemon hard enough that one of the seeds shoots out and bounces off the bowl, hitting Porthos in the face.

Porthos shakes his head, resettling his thoughts. The music seeps back in again and he finds that soon he’s humming along to the song and listening to Athos mutter under his breath and just quietly enjoying the evening. _Wonders never cease, I guess_ , he thinks.

When the batter is finished and the pound cakes are in the oven, the two of them set about cleaning up the first round of dishes.

“Now you know why my experiments aren’t as great as they sound,” Porthos says. “I make the kids do the dishes. I’m lucky they don’t riot the minute I suggest we’re doing one."

Athos hands him the bowl and paddle attachment for the mixer. His voice is utterly deadpan when he says, “Yes, no doubt, and it’s exactly that level of discontent that has gotten you voted Teacher of the Year for three years running.” He rolls his eyes spectacularly.

Porthos shrugs one shoulder as he wipes the bowl out. “If I’m honest, that probably means more to me than it should."

His brow furrows as Athos runs a damp rag over the mixer. “I don’t follow."

Somehow the mundane task of washing the dishes gives Porthos the freedom to let his thoughts wander and put into words something he’s never been truly able to express before. It does not escape his notice that he’s about to say all of this to Athos, of all people.

“When I first started, I felt so… I came to this the hard way, see? Got my GED instead of my diploma, spent years as a grunt humping a pack from one side of Afghanistan to another. After I got out, all the guys I’d served with had gone back over there in these megabucks private security jobs while I sat around being the oldest person in most of my college classes."

Porthos wipes the last of the dishes clean and runs the rag around the inside of the sink.   
“I kept wondering why I was bothering but I knew I wanted something different. When I got to the school I spent my first six months thinking that any second Ninon was going to come into my room and tell me that they’d realized I couldn’t do this and send me packing. I looked around and everyone had a style that worked for them, and the only thing I knew for sure was that science made things work. That was the only hook I had and I wasn’t even sure the kids would go for it."

He rinses it and drapes it over the faucet and then pours them each a refill on their beers. “So to get evaluations saying they liked my style, that they learned something, to have them vote me Teacher of the Year even though it’s just a piece of paper, it really gave me something to hold on to when I was just feeling so insecure.”

Athos takes a drink and looks at the man in front of him, a mix of broad shoulders and clever hands with a personality like a force of nature. “I find it utterly incomprehensible that you would be insecure.”

Porthos nods and sucks the foam from his upper lip. “Absolutely, and defensive. ’S why I was so unbearable at the end of that night. There you were, everything I knew I wasn’t, could never be. Doctor Athos with his published papers and his research, and I could only get kids to pay attention to me if I was making things explode.” Athos opens his mouth to say something, but Porthos waves him down. “I know that’s not true. I know better now, but it’s how I felt at the time. I was already sure I was going to spend that whole date proving myself, so to hear you talk about how amazing your old life was, to hear you talk about how much you loved all those things I’d never be, fuck, I just took it so personally."

Picking at the edge of the granite worktop, Athos says, “You couldn’t have known, of course, how unsure of myself I felt around you. Your students love you and I still felt so out of my element. I’d have given anything to be back writing papers again. Not just because I loved it, but because it was something I felt sure of, something I knew how to do. I had no idea how to relate to seventh graders, I still don’t. When you said what you did, I just had this flash of how I’d never be in that environment again, that I’d spend the rest of my career trying desperately to fake it for fourteen-year-olds, and the thought that you’d look at me and see how badly I’d ruined my life… I left. I just left."

Athos takes another long pull at his beer. “If it had happened at school, if there had been that buffer of professionalism, I might not have felt it as hard—“

“But it was a date,” Porthos says.

“It was a date. I hoped we could get past it, that I could apologize for leaving, but you came into that faculty meeting and I felt embarrassed all over again. For what I thought you saw in me, for what I said, for how I left. I kept staring at you trying to find some words and all that I found was shame. Then you left.” Athos looks up to find Porthos staring at him. “You just got up and left."

Porthos drops his head, shaking it, and there is the tiniest sad smile at the corners of his mouth. “Someday someone should take a picture of your embarrassed face so you can see what it looks like.” At Athos’ confused look, he says, “Because it looks almost exactly like your disgusted and pissed off face. That’s why I left. I was still so embarrassed myself, for having lashed out and said such shit things to you. I wanted to say something after the meeting, to see if we could salvage that date, but the way your face looked? I just felt like dirt all over again. So, yeah, I left.” He’s circling his pint glass on the counter top, watching the patterns the reflections of the granite are making on the glass.

Athos says, “Every time you came into a room I felt ashamed again, and I got that look."

“And every time you looked at me like that I got embarrassed and left."

“Porthos, in all the time I’ve known you, even when I was thinking the worst, I’ve always believed you to be an engaged and charismatic teacher with a brilliant mind."

Porthos just stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open. He wants to say that Athos reminds him of the beauty of numbers, that when he’s passionately explaining a subject it’s impossible not to become enmeshed in it, but just as he’s forming the words the timer goes off.

“Can you grab the trivets from that drawer,” Athos points to the drawer just to the right of the sink, “and put them out?"

Porthos does as he’s asked and when Athos gets the cooling rack out they work together to invert all the cakes and tap them loose from their pans.

“Now,” Athos says, “it’s time for the secret.” He hands Porthos a bowl of lemon juice and a bowl of sugar, together with a spoon. “Stir those together until the sugar dissolves.” Porthos shoots him an amused smirk. “Please,” Athos smiles.

While Porthos is stirring, Athos pulls a toothpick from a drawer and starts putting tiny, deep holes all along the bottoms of each loaf of bread. Porthos hands him the bowl of lemon syrup and Athos pours some over the bread, watching as it soaks into the holes.

“Now we let them finish cooling and glaze them.” Athos takes the rest of the lemon juice and pours it into a bowl of powdered sugar. As he’s whisking the two together with a fork he looks up at the clock. “Shit, I had no idea how late it was, my apologies.” He rubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist and says, “Let’s get you on the road, I’ll glaze them in the morning. It’s just dumping this over the top. I can do that even before coffee."

Porthos is smiling at him, watching his bright eyes and listening to “The Dock of the Bay” coming out of the speakers. Athos has managed to rub powdered sugar into his hair and before he can stop himself Porthos says, “You’ve got something right…” and reaches out to brush at Athos’ hair.

Athos sucks in a startled breath and freezes, feeling Porthos’ fingers brush against his temple and smelling him, warm and spicy and so close.

“There,” Porthos says, looking straight into Athos’ eyes and for a moment not talking about the sugar or his hair at all. “That’s got it."

The song finishes and Athos blinks and the moment is over. Porthos gathers his things and puts on his scarf and coat while Athos holds the door open for him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Athos asks.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “‘Course.” He smiles and sketches a quick wave before heading down the front walk. A few feet from the door, Porthos stops and turns back. “Goodnight. Athos,” he says, then he turns again and walks away.

Athos closes the door and puts his hot forehead against the cool glass. Hearing Porthos say his name like that is like a velvet-gloved hand stroking his neck. He remembers it all so clearly, how Porthos had smiled when he’d invited Athos on that date, how incredible he’d looked at that moment, the delicious weight of all that potential on his heart. This feels like that all over again and Athos suddenly realizes that while that moment in the kitchen is over, the meat of his problem with Porthos is just beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a recipe that I honestly don't have a recipe for, as it's my mother's and she guards it like the crown jewels. Still, as best I can get out of her it's based off [this one from Ina Garten](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/lemon-cake-recipe.html). (Ina, as my mother calls her, like they're buddies.)


	5. Week 4 - The Peanut Brittle Put It All Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are scant moments between classes, but during every break Athos goes to stand in the doorway of his room and watch the hall. If asked, he could claim he’s watching to make sure the kids don’t cause trouble. The truth, and he knows it, God how he knows it, is that he’s waiting to see if Porthos walks by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Cee, as always, for helping me get past the sticky bits. And for breathtaken and etoiledemer and amistosa without whom I would be kicking this thing in the head still.

It’s Constance who calls him on it. Of course, it’s Constance. 

They’re mid-way through that week’s sale; Porthos is handing over a neatly wrapped slice of pound cake, and Athos is just watching his face as he smiles.  Over Porthos’ shoulder, Athos can see Constance’s eyebrows fly up and then her eyes narrow.  It’s barely a heartbeat, after which she conspicuously looks away.  Athos spends the rest of the sale waiting for her to tease him, to tweak him.  She doesn’t say a word. 

Aramis brings Julia by not long before they pack up. He’s bundled in that wonderful fuzzy scarf he was wearing the week before, the one he’d worn on their date.  At the thought of that afternoon, Athos feels the tips of his ears go pink and hopes to God Constance isn’t watching him just then.  

Aramis smiles at Athos and Athos can’t help but smile back.  Julia catches his attention. 

“Mr. de la Fère?  I have a question about the homework?” Athos answers her as best he can without giving the answers away and thinks again how much he’ll miss her next year.  While he’s talking to Julia, Athos can hear Porthos and Aramis speaking quiet voices.  Porthos is saying how much he enjoyed their dinner, how much he’d like to do it again.  Aramis agrees, enthusiastically. 

Athos can hear them discussing days, settling on one, deciding that staying in and watching a movie is a perfect plan. A movement catches Athos’ eye, it’s Porthos gesturing, illustrating a point with his boundless enthusiasm.  Watching Porthos, Athos wonders when he stopped finding that irritating, wonders if he ever had at all. 

He flicks his eyes to look at Aramis and finds Aramis looking back at him, something on his face that looks like confusion and amusement and a trace of worry. He realizes that Aramis must be wondering if Athos is jealous of their date.  Athos isn’t, is the strange thing. He enjoys Aramis’ company, has come to enjoy Porthos’ as well. He knows that any evening they spend together will be full of this same laughter and animated conversation.  If anything, Athos is a little sad that he won’t be there to enjoy their company together. For a flash of a moment, he hopes that if their relationship goes further, they’ll invite him over from time to time. 

Athos doesn’t have so many friends that he can afford to write one off just because they’ve had some good dates.  Great dates.  He shakes his head, unsure how he got so far in front of his own future.

 

When they’ve finished, when all the pound cake and banana bread (Constance and d’Artagnan) and chocolate pudding cake (Louis and Anne) have found happy homes, Athos helps Constance clear up.  They’re at their cars, bundled against the cold, when she finally says something. Foolish, he thinks later, to have believed himself in the clear, to think she would just let it drop. 

“I’ve seen it, y’know?  The way you look at him these days." 

Athos sighs and props his elbows onto the roof of his car, dropping his head into his hands. “Life was so much better when I hated him, Constance." 

She makes a sympathetic noise.  “Oh, Athos. No."

“No, you’re right. It was easier, though." 

“I meant no, you never hated him." 

No, he supposes, he never did.  He didn’t even know how. Athos had tried so hard to dislike Porthos and only ever ended by disliking himself more, pulling that anger over himself like a blanket. 

Constance smiles again.  “You’re right though, it would have been easier if you had."

 

It seems to Porthos, as the week goes on, that the only thing worse than running into Athos in the halls while they still weren’t speaking, running into him now with so much awkward tension between them.  Every time Athos rakes his fingers through his hair Porthos remembers how it felt under his fingers.   When Athos looks at him, meets his eyes, Porthos thinks of how that look between them seemed like it would never end. 

Their conversations are stilted, but neither of them wants to be the first to leave.  Some time on Thursday afternoon recalls the days when they barely looked at each other.  Would that be better than now? Would he prefer it if he could walk from one end of the school to another and know that there was no risk it would involve five stilted minutes of discussing pencils with Athos? No, not at all. Porthos would be content to stand making awkward small talk with Athos for hours, just to watch him nervously flush. 

His date with Aramis is an oasis of uncomplicated joy.  Porthos, a scientist at heart, knows that with matter it is impossible for two objects to occupy the same space. Would the spark with Athos on Monday night have driven out the reaction in Porthos’ chest to Aramis’ smile? Would there still be that connection? Porthos opens the door to Aramis’ knock and his heart swoops and rises under Aramis’ smile, his fingers still tingle everywhere they have touched. 

The next day d’Artagnan will ask him what they watched and Porthos will have to make something up because they don't see a single moment past the opening credits.  It’s been a decade or more since Porthos necked on the couch instead of watching the movie and he enjoys every second of it. 

They talk, when they talk, about their days and their plans. Aramis lays sucking kisses to the line of Porthos’ jaw, then stops to talk about the most bizarre call he’d gone out on since they’ve seen each other last.  Porthos kisses him some more, groaning and rolling his body against Aramis, then rests his forehead against Aramis’ to breathe and tell him about Finley Bryer lighting the rubber stopper on fire during the distillation experiment on Tuesday. 

It is a perfect date.  When Aramis is wrapping his scarf back around his neck at the end of the evening, he asks, “What will you two make for next week?" 

Porthos scratches his beard, smiling. “It’s candy week, we’ve discussed peanut brittle. I’m pretty sure we both like it and it’s nice to have something you won’t mind leftovers of if the sale doesn’t go well." 

“Mmm,” Aramis smiles and leans in to kiss Porthos one last time. “It will be irresistible."

 

By Sunday afternoon, Athos has yet to settle on a recipe.  He’d meant to bring it up with Porthos, of course he had, but it seemed like every time he saw Porthos in the hall the talk stayed small and simple.  Athos had found himself tongue-tied in a way he hadn’t been since before their disastrous first date and for much the same reasons. 

He finds himself looking at Porthos and seeing all over again how handsome he is, how his face becomes animated when he talks about what experiments his kids are doing. There are scant moments between classes, but during every break Athos goes to stand in the doorway of his room and watch the hall.  If asked, he could claim he’s watching to make sure the kids don’t cause trouble. The truth, and he knows it, God how he knows it, is that he’s waiting to see if Porthos walks by. 

On the few times he does, Athos tries to school his face into something other than a stupid look and waves.  After which he goes back to his desk and tries to find something suitably heavy to hit himself in the face with a few times. 

With all of that in the days leading up to the weekend, Athos is curious to see how his date with Aramis will be.  Athos still remembers his ex-fiancée’s birthday, still sometimes smiles  at memories of her even after all that passed between them. He knows the heart is a strange and complicated beast, any attempts to guess at how things will be with Aramis are pointless. Nothing will be sure until it happens. 

He’s been in the bookstore for fifteen minutes before Aramis comes in. In an attempt to use his time productively, Athos is in the back with the cookbooks trying to find a decent-looking recipe for peanut brittle.  

Aramis arrives in a compact tempest of dark curls and bright eyes.  The bell on the door jingles and Athos looks up to see Aramis unwinding his scarf and walking directly toward him.  “Hello there,” he says, leaning in to press a soft kiss against Athos’ mouth and then glancing down at the book Athos is holding.  “Oh, candy cookbooks. Are you shopping for this week’s recipe?" 

It isn’t until Aramis looks up again, clearly waiting for a reply, that Athos realizes he’s been standing there with his mouth open just watching the way the cold has made Aramis’ cheeks pink.  Which, he supposes, definitively answers the question of whether he will still fell a pull towards Aramis, a spark.  Athos can feel it chase down his spine as he snaps his mouth shut and nods.  

“Let me help,” Aramis says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.  “Porthos told me what you were making; let’s see if we can’t find the perfect peanut brittle recipe hiding in one of these.” 

Athos can’t help himself, he just smiles and says, “Lovely." 

They’d had grand plans for lunch, had picked out a specific restaurant even, but when all is said and done they pile the most promising looking cookbooks together and sit in the bookstore’s café flipping through them for the entire date. It’s Aramis who finds the perfect recipe. He spins the book around and he and Athos bend their heads together to read it and he’s right, it’s just the thing.  When Athos looks up from the book, Aramis is staring at him and his tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. 

Athos buys the cookbook, along with a book of math puzzles for Julia, and a copy of “How to Cook Almost Everything,” because it’s the perfect cookbook for the math and science-minded.  (He’s most of the way home before he realizes he’s bought it for Porthos.)

Stepping out of the shop into the weak afternoon sunlight, Aramis turns to Athos and smiles.  “I know this wasn’t our plan for the day, but I’ve had a fantastic time." 

“I quite like our tradition of accidental dates,” Athos says, surprised to find he sounds almost smooth. 

“We should accidentally do this again, then,” Aramis says and Athos smiles.  “I’m parked this way.”  Aramis jerks his thumb down the block, entirely the opposite direction from where Athos parked.  

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says and turns to follow Aramis. 

Aramis reaches his hand out and takes Athos’ hand.  “Always such a gentleman.” 

In the gap between blocks is a small alley.  The buildings on either side aren’t tall so it’s still getting some afternoon light.  Aramis turns as though something has caught his eye and turns into the alley. 

“What is it?” Athos asks and follows him.  

“The problem—,” Aramis starts and then spins, catching Athos by the shoulders, pressing him up against one of the alley walls.  At Athos’ expression, surprised but not angry, Aramis says, “The problem is, I’m afraid I’m _not_ always a gentleman,” and then he leans in to capture Athos’ mouth with his own. 

Athos makes a soft, startled noise and then moans into the kiss, his arms sliding up around Aramis’ back.  The kisses go on and on.  Athos tears his mouth away and traces the curve of Aramis’ jaw with his lips.  Aramis is sucking at the skin of Athos’ neck, licking the pulse as it thrums under thin skin, and Athos shudders with how good it feels. 

Aramis has slipped his hands up inside Athos’ coat, under his shirt, and Athos can feel the warm leather of Aramis’ gloves against his naked back.  Athos groans and tugs Aramis closer, rolling helplessly against the cradle of Aramis’ hips. 

It’s a blaring horn that finally separates them and Aramis takes a second to glance at his watch.  “Damn,” he says, looking back up at Athos, catching the back of Athos’ head in his hand and pulling him in for a last kiss.  “I would love nothing more than to take this somewhere warm, but if I don’t go now I’ll be late to pick up Jules." 

Athos smiles, “Your priorities are in the right order.”  They finish the walk to Aramis’ car and Athos hands him the book of math puzzles.  “Tell her I said to be patient and take her time and she can bring me questions if she has them." 

“Thank you,” Aramis says.  “For lunch and for this and,” his grin is wicked, ”for the kissing.” The tips of Athos’ ears go pink.  “You’re adorable when you blush." 

“Shut up and go away,” Athos says, with not a single drop of spite in his voice. 

He watches until Aramis’ Toyota turns the corner and disappears from sight before walking back to his own car.  In his hand is the bag with the cookbook with the recipe for this week’s baking.  The baking Athos has to do with Porthos, tomorrow.  Porthos, who has starred in more than a few of Athos’ one-handed shower moments this week.  And now Athos is standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight, his lips still warm from one man’s kisses and thinking of another. 

Well, shit.

 

Porthos has cleaned the kitchen three times.  It wasn’t even that messy to begin with, but he finds himself scrubbing imaginary grime from the counters over and over.  He spent his week catching Athos out of the corner of his eye and wondering if Athos, too kept remembering that split second of contact.  Porthos keeps feeling Athos’ skin under his fingers again, the warmth of him so close.

It would have been easy, then, to kiss him. For four years Porthos has done everything in his power to forget the feeling of Athos’ mouth under his and the sound of Athos’ breathy moans in his ears but that moment in his kitchen last week it had all come flooding back.  Now, waiting for the doorbell to ring, Porthos isn’t sure if he wants to push those memories back down, or never forget again. 

He has an idea, is the problem.  It’s a dangerous idea and every time he tries to push it away it comes crowding back.  It’s filling his mind and burrowing into the edges, refusing to let go.  The end result will either be perfection or it will be incendiary, there will be no in-between, and still Porthos can’t bring himself to stop thinking about it. 

Athos is two minutes overdue and Porthos is about to scrub a hole through the countertop, so he goes to the stereo and puts some music on.  It’s Norah Jones, quiet and sweet, but it soothes him, and he loves the honest sentiment.  When the bell rings, Porthos’ hands clench into fists, just a muscle reflex; he stills himself with a breath and goes to answer it.

 

Athos is carrying the bag of supplies, which Porthos was expecting, but under his other arm is a small bag from the bookstore.  Athos had sent the recipe the previous night, there isn’t any need for him to be bringing anything, so Porthos is staring at the bag, confused. 

“It’s… I thought you… May I?” Athos says, gesturing to the foyer.  

“Yeah, sorry yeah,” Porthos says, shaking his head and stepping aside to let Athos in.   He takes Athos’ coat and hangs it up, draping his scarf over the coat tree.  He’s still trying to decide how he wants to approach this evening when Athos speaks. 

“It’s for you.”  He holds out the bag.  “I know you don’t need another cookbook, but I’ve always appreciated the scientific approach this one has." 

Porthos reaches in and pulls out the bright yellow cookbook.  “‘How to Cook Ev— Athos, did you know?"

“I beg your pardon?" 

Porthos laughs. “I used to have a copy of this; I loved it. A disgruntled ex took it with her when she left.  I’ve missed it ever since but never remembered to buy another.”  He stops talking and just looks at the thick book in his hands, then back up at Athos. 

Porthos’ face is soft at the edges and his eyes are warm and kind in a way Athos hasn’t seen, ever. 

“Thank you, Athos. Thank you for this." 

Athos is almost certain Porthos isn’t talking about the cookbook. “You’re very welcome.”  Athos isn’t talking about the cookbook either. 

There’s an odd thickness in the air, the two of them swim through it and around each other as they work.  Athos pulls up the recipe on Porthos’ iPad and hands it back to him, keeping his fingers curled back so they don’t touch, but he utterly fails to keep from leaning into Porthos’ space as they stand side-by-side at the stove.  

The first time Porthos’ hand brushes Athos’ lower back as he walks to the sink is a mistake, Athos is sure of it.  The second, third, and fourth times are most definitely not.  Athos is doing everything he can not to arch back into them.  When Porthos reaches over Athos’ head to get something out of the cupboard, their faces come dangerously close but Porthos just clears his throat and apologizes for interrupting Athos’ stirring.  Athos clears his throat but doesn’t speak, it is everything he can do to keep from saying, ‘When you come that close to me I can smell your skin and it’s the best thing I’ve ever smelled.' 

Athos thinks of Aramis’ mouth on his own, those wild curls tickling the skin of Athos’ forehead as the wind blows them.  He thinks of Aramis and Porthos smiling at each other and the way they flirt so effortlessly.  There are so many ways for this to go, he knows. But none of them is a way where he should be spilling secrets to Porthos.  Not telling Porthos that when he leans in close Athos can count the few silver hairs sneaking in amongst his black curls. 

When the last of the peanut brittle is cooling on the counter, Athos turns to see Porthos smiling at him.  “You’ve done it again,” he says.  Athos looks confused and Porthos points to his own eyebrow.  Athos scrubs at his forehead with the damp paper towel he’s just used to dry his hands, then his eyes flick a question at Porthos.  Porthos smiles and shakes his head. “You’ve made it worse now.” Athos scrubs the other side and now Porthos is laughing quietly, a soft rumble Athos can feel even from a few feet away. 

From the other room, the stereo clicks over into the first few bars of “Come Away With Me,” and Porthos shakes his head again, coming over to stand in front of Athos.  Porthos takes his thumb and brings it up, not quite touching Athos, looking straight into his eyes.   Athos is holding his breath, never tearing his eyes away.  When Porthos’ thumb strokes over Athos’ eyebrow, Athos gasps, softly, and it’s like he’s been shocked back into life.  He drags in a heavy breath and his eyelids flutter closed. 

Porthos strokes over and over, rubbing away what had been there, and then brushing his temple just to feel Athos’ skin under his.  Bringing his other hand up, Porthos strokes over both eyebrows at once, and Athos’ face tenses for an instant, almost as if he were in pain.  He lets out a soft, breathy sigh and his eyes open, meeting Porthos’ unflinching look.

He doesn’t look away when Porthos’ fingers stroke over his temples, his forehead.  He doesn’t even blink when Porthos’ palms cradle his face and those big thumbs brush over his cheekbones and he feels fingers trace his jaw.  Athos doesn’t move a muscle until Porthos’ strong fingers curl against his scalp, tilting his face up.  Porthos is bending close, Athos can feel a breath against his mouth.  “Can I kiss you?” Porthos asks. 

The sound of their breathing is louder than the music, louder than Athos’ heart slamming in his chest, louder than anything but the sound of Athos’ barely-whispered, “Please." 

There’s no electricity, no thunder, only the feeling of Porthos’ winter-dry lips under his and the smell of his skin in Athos’ nose and it is unspeakably good. It is _perfect_. Athos sighs again and his mouth opens, letting Porthos in. When Porthos’ tongue strokes over his own for the first time, Athos’ hands fly up to fist in the fabric of Porthos' shirt.  Porthos groans against him and sucks in a breath at the contact. Athos can feel Porthos deepening the kiss and their bodies coming together.  Their chests are warm against each other, even through their clothes and the way Porthos kisses feels like home. 

When Athos pulls back, needing air and a break and to let his heart settle, Porthos just brushes their dry lips together. 

“Oh,” Athos says, and then smiles, helplessly.  “Oh." 

“Yeah,” Porthos says and kisses him again.  This one is harder, messier, Athos’ palms flat against Porthos’ chest and then sliding around his back to hold Porthos’ body close to him.  Any hesitation gone, Athos backs Porthos against countertop and slants his mouth over Porthos’.  He tastes of sugar and peanuts and a little bit of salt and Athos licks at his tongue, at his lips, taking it all in. He’s nearly giddy, it feels _so good_. 

Porthos strokes his hands down over Athos’ back.  Those broad, beautiful hands spanning his shoulder blades and curling against him. They kiss for days, it seems, nothing separating one kiss from another except that for this one Athos sighs and for the next one Porthos growls. 

Cradling Athos’ head in his hands again Porthos pulls back just a little. His mouth easy and light, dropping little kisses against Athos’ forehead, his cheeks, one under his right ear, one over the curve of his neck. He’s whispering into Athos’ skin and Athos can’t make out the words.  “What did you say?” he asks. 

“If I’d known—,” Porthos says, pulling his head away.  “I never would have—" 

Athos smiles at him, one corner of his mouth curling up and one eyebrow arching. “If we’d gone home together after that party like I’d wanted to, we could have been doing this for years.”  He drops his head to Porthos’ chest and presses a soft kiss to the fabric over his heart.  “But you wanted a proper date, and look where that got us." 

Porthos curls his hands into Athos’ hair again and sighs, resting their foreheads together.  He swipes his thumbs over Athos’ cheeks if only to feel Athos’ skin again.  “Maybe it’s not too late to salvage that date, after all." 

Athos has no idea why what he says to that is, “No more kissing Aramis, then." 

Porthos startles slightly, drawing back to look down at Athos, careful to keep his hands on Athos’ head, his eyes on Athos’ face.  He smiles and thinks of his dangerous idea, that  explosive plan digging in at the corners of his mind.  He scratches at his beard and asks.  “What if there was more kissing Aramis?" 

Athos is startled and confused, his hands clutching at Porthos’ shirt. “After that, I’m not sure I can go back to not kissing you again." 

“Good,” Porthos says, kissing Athos quick but firm. 

“I can’t see you behind his back, Porthos, and I don’t think you have that in you either."

Porthos reaches behind his back to take Athos’ hands in his. “I didn’t say that.."

The lines between Athos’ eyebrows are growing deeper. “Then what...?" 

Porthos looks straight at Athos.  "I love the idea of trying again with you, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all week, all month. I’ve loved having that smart, funny guy in my life again. I hate that you feel like you have to give up something with him, that you feel like I would have to give up something with him.  What if… what if there were a way we could make it work?” 

“I’m not sure I understand,” Athos says. 

“In the past, when I was younger, I had a relationship where I was involved with two other people.  Not behind anyone’s back, not swapping, just the three of us, together. I know that Aramis has had one like that, too.  If we could…. If we could make it work with all of us?  Would you want to try?”  Porthos’ voice is so earnest. "Could you try, Athos?" 

Athos can feel his world shifting out of focus, but grounding him is the feeling of Porthos’ hands in his, the memory of Aramis’ bright eyes and cheeks pink from the cold, the way Porthos and Aramis laugh with each other. 

“Before this month, before tonight, I’d have said no,” Athos says. “Then again, before this month I thought I knew who you were,” he tucks one of Porthos’ rogue curls back into place. “And I was so wrong.” Tilting his head, Athos drags his mouth over Porthos’ in a soft kiss.  “One never knows how many things I could be wrong about.”  He can feel Porthos smiling against his lips.

There are a few moments then during which the two of them just stand together, foreheads resting against each other.  Porthos smiles and touches Athos’ face, Athos just closes his eyes and sighs, years worth of tension draining from him.

“I don’t— I don’t want you to think I don’t want you,” Porthos starts, then stops and tries to find the right words. 

“You don’t want to do anything more until we talk to Aramis,” Athos says, a smile and a knowing look on his face. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, and his face relaxes. “I could kiss you until the sun comes up, but I want to know about Aramis before there’s more.  If he’s going to be there, he should be there from the start.”  When Porthos looks at Athos again, Athos’ face is slack and his eyes are slightly glazed.  “Athos?" 

“My apologies, I was struck by that rather compelling visual." 

“Well, you need to get past it because the way you look right now... I’m not sure how good my willpower is." 

Athos’ smile is soft and fond, his right hand cupping Porthos’ cheek. 

“Then it’s best we finish up here and I go home because I’m stubborn and determined, but I’m still only human." 

Between them, they smash and bag all of the peanut brittle and Porthos says he’ll handle getting it into school the next day.  At the door, Athos knots his scarf around his neck and tilts his head to kiss Porthos again.  One kiss turns to two turns to four.  It isn’t until Porthos fails to stifle a yawn that Athos can bring himself to stop the kissing.  “Tomorrow,” Athos says. 

“Goodnight, Athos,” Porthos says, and the words hit Athos just as hard as they had the week before. 

 

It isn’t until he’s halfway home that Athos starts to question the plan.  Someone, and God he volunteers Porthos, is going to have to actually discuss this with Aramis.  They’ll have to talk about it. There is an organic flow to a couple and Athos is terrified that with a trio things won’t be like that. He’s been cramming his heart into a disused corner of his life for so long he’s not sure he has it in him to do this. 

Without even meaning to, Athos is running his fingers over his mouth.  His lips are tender, even a little swollen from kissing Porthos.  There is the soft heat of beard burn across his mouth, cheeks and chin.  He can feel his pulse in his lips and smell Porthos’ cologne on his fingers from where Athos was rubbing his thumbs against Porthos’ neck.  This, the presence of Porthos in so many of his senses, brings Athos back to the point of it all.

These men make him feel like he’s living again.  They make him feel like the choices and changes in his life have led him to this point and for the first time in years this point is a good place to be. He could love them.  He could love both of them.  So much in his life and his background is clamoring to tell him this is foolish, but God help him, Athos wants this. 

Athos falls asleep that night with his fingers still touching his lips.

 

Constance catches Athos’ eye across the parking lot the next morning and Athos knows she wants to talk, but he’s still savoring every second of last night in his own head.  He isn’t ready to let it out, to let it belong to anyone else as well, so he only raises his travel mug in her direction and gives her half a smile. 

He keeps his head down and his students busy and it might be any other Tuesday, except for a moment just after lunch when he gets an email from Porthos that just says, “Hi.”  Athos sends the same back to him; it’s just the two of them reaching out and reassuring each other in the middle of this day that could end so badly. 

Athos helps Constance set up tables and chairs, he helps her put up the signs, he tries to keep busy in the forty minutes before the final bell rings.  Constance can tell his mind is elsewhere but after her initial, “D’you want to talk about it?” is met with a shake of Athos’ head, she lets him be.  He’ll tell her eventually, they both know it, but he’d rather have something concrete to tell her about, not just spin himself further into knots by talking to her about all the ways this could go wrong. 

When the bell rings and the students start flowing out of the rooms, waves of them crashing into each other like salmon swimming upstream, it’s Aramis that Athos sees first.  He comes through the front doors with his peacoat buttoned all the way up and a knitted watch cap pulled low over his forehead. He smiles at Athos, tugging his hat off and running his fingers through his curls.  

“Hello, you,” he says, and Athos can feel his heart hammering in his throat. “I figured since we were going to end up buying goodies anyway, I’d just have Julia meet me here. How did the brittle making go?"

For a moment, Athos is as tongue-tied as the day they first met. “It went well, I think. The results were promising, we’re just… waiting on the final verdict.” 

“And that’s me, I suppose,” Aramis says, his eyes bright and his smile so wide.  Athos can feel his heartbeat stutter and his mouth drops open.  He’s about to say something when Aramis continues, “As the consumer, I mean.  I’m sure it’ll be great." 

In the few seconds it takes Athos to catch his breath, Porthos comes around the corner.  He sees Athos first and smiles.  “Hey,” he says. 

“Hello,” Athos says, and he hopes the look on his face isn’t as ridiculous as it feels. From the look on Aramis’ face when Athos turns to him, it might actually be worse.  Aramis is just looking between the two of them, looking at how close Porthos is now standing to Athos. 

“Ah,” Aramis says. “I suppose—" 

Porthos interrupts him with a hand on his shoulder.  “Aramis,” he starts, and then trails off. 

It’s Athos, to the surprise of everyone, himself included, who speaks next.

“I wonder if we might have a quick word with you after we’re finished here?" 

Aramis looks to Porthos and whatever he sees in Porthos’ eyes seems to give him the reason he needs to stay.  “Sure, yeah,” he says, but his face is still tense. 

“Shouldn’t be too long,” Porthos says. “We didn’t make as much this week." 

The voice from behind them is startling to them all, “The library should be quiet.”  Athos whips his head around to see d’Artagnan sitting at Athos and Porthos’ table.  “I know what you’re charging for these and the math is something even I can handle. Go on.  Julia and I have this.”  D’Artagnan smiles at Julia and Julia beams back at him.   Athos looks past d’Artagnan to see Constance wink.  She’s too clever by half; Athos wonders how long she’s had this figured out. 

“To the library then,” Athos says, gesturing for the others to go on.  Porthos is at the head of their awkward little train and Athos is in the rear and he tries so hard not to feel like they’re herding Aramis. 

They find a quiet corner, away from the door and the desk and most of the foot traffic.  Aramis is shifting from foot to foot, twisting his cap in his hands.  Athos is managing to hold still only by virtue of having both hands shoved into his trouser pockets.  Only Porthos seems calm. 

“Aramis, how would you feel… I should have thought more about how to say this,” Porthos starts. 

“Breathe, Porthos,” Aramis says, with a nervous smile. “It’s not as though you’re about to propose a threesome or something.”  He laughs, but it’s not loud enough to cover the choking sound Athos makes.  It’s certainly not loud enough to cover the roaring silence from Porthos.  Aramis stands with his mouth hanging open for half a second, then snaps it shut, saying, “Oh." 

“Not that, actually,” Athos says, and he can see how relieved Porthos is that he’s stepping in right now. “But we were wondering if perhaps the next date for each of us could be, well, for all of us."

“You want us to go out?  The three of us?” Aramis asks, and Porthos nods.  Now that the initial proposal is on the table, Porthos seems to have found his feet. 

“I know it’s not an everyday thing, but I also know it’s not new to you or to me, and Athos is up for a try. You like us both, we like each other, I think this could work, Aramis. Would you be up for giving it a shot?" 

Aramis worries at his lower lip for a second before he says, “You are the two cleverest, most charming, most attractive men I’ve ever met, I’d be a fool not to at least try.  But let’s start small?  Coffee?" 

Athos tamps down a hysterical bubble of laughter.  It can’t be this easy.  Nothing in his life is this easy.  Dear God, _please_ let it be this easy.  “I’d like that,” Athos says. 

Porthos grins deep enough to flash both dimples. “Perfect." 

They settle on Thursday night at a café they all know but have never been to together. It’s familiar but won’t have any prior date associated with it.   When they’re back in the lobby and Aramis is tucking his hair back up under his cap, getting ready to leave with Julia, he turns to them both and says, “I’m really looking forward to this.”  His grin is sinful. 

Athos can feel his face flush.  Porthos can feel the back of his neck get hot.  

“Us too,” Porthos says.  Athos only nods, but he knows that Aramis can read everything on his face, can see how, in spite of his nerves, he so very much wants this to work. 

 

Constance gets to Porthos first.  She corners him in the lunch room the next day and won’t let up until he tells her at least the bare minimum.  She’s tickled, of course, and hopeful for them all.  That leaves Athos to fill her in on the minute details while she helps him get ready for the date. 

He’s so nervous and desperate for distraction that he doesn’t even bother trying to hold any information back.  She asks questions and he answers.  She pulls shirts out of his closet and he tries them on.  By the time he’s ready to leave Athos is wearing a sea green button-down and a dark pair of jeans he hadn’t even known he owned, and Constance knows everything. 

“Remember to hold the door for them,” Constance says.  “And have them both home before eleven." 

The gentle teasing is what settles Athos.  When he says, “And shall I make sure that everyones’ hands are above the table at all times?” his customary bite is back in his tone. 

“If you did that, how could you use your napkin the way your charm school lessons taught you?” Constance says, and her voice is deceptively innocent and sweet.

“You’re terrible,” he tells her. 

“You couldn’t do this without me,” she says and hugs him. 

Athos buries his face in her hair and says, “I really could not,” and before he falls victim to rank sentimentality he’s out the door. 

Porthos makes it to the date without Constance’s reassuring presence only because she’d texted him in the middle of the day to say, “Black henley, dark green cargo pants, motorcycle boots.  Don’t order any drink with foam, you always get it up your nose.”  

 

When Porthos gets to the café, Athos and Aramis are already there.  Aramis looks like a filthy dream in a soft, chunky knit, oatmeal-colored sweater  and wool flannel slacks.  Every inch of him looks touchable but when Porthos sees Athos he isn’t sure which of them he wants to grab first. 

“You both look incredible,” Porthos says and bends to kiss them both on the mouth before taking a seat.

“Oh yes, I didn’t get one of those,” Aramis says. He turns to kiss Athos.

It’s those kisses, not chaste and on the cheek but pressed full and lush to their mouths, that somehow make the evening easy.  There is no hiding of affection, no dancing around why they’re there.  They’re three people who are each attracted to one another, separately and together. This isn’t a “get to know me” date, this is a chance to see if this new and potentially glorious combination of personalities works. 

It works. 

Porthos teases Athos for getting a pot of tea; Aramis picks on Porthos for not listening to Constance and getting cappuccino foam up his nose.  They talk about music and books and Athos tells stories of how university students are worse that the students he has now.  Aramis tells them both about the call he’d been out on earlier that day where the patient had tried to flirt with him while he put her on the stretcher and how he’d had to refuse to give her his phone number four separate times. Porthos laughs and asks all the right questions at all the right times.  

Athos watches Porthos talk about the first time he ever looked through a microscope and knows that the look on his face is besotted at best.  He looks to see if Aramis has caught him and see that the look on Aramis’ face is no better.  He is looking at Porthos as though he wants to hold him and cherish him and ravish him all at once.  Athos might have expected jealousy but instead all he feels is an overwhelming fondness for them both and a heat in his belly at the idea of getting to see that ravishing. 

Later, when he comes back from the counter with cookies for each of them, Athos gets to feel that look from Aramis, and a matching one from Porthos, directed at him.  He feels a little short of breath and his throat goes a little tight.   When Porthos says, “Thank you,” his voice is rough and low. Athos is still feeling the rumble of it down his spine when Aramis takes his hand and brushes a kiss over his knuckles.  For a second there’s no sound in the room but the rushing in Athos’ ears and the thump of his own heart.  They are going to ruin him, he can feel it in his bones. He can’t wait. 

It’s late by the time they get ready to leave, Athos and Porthos pleading an early start at work and Aramis unable to keep the exhaustion of his day off his face any longer.  Athos and Porthos walk Aramis to his car. 

“Success?”  Porthos asks. 

“Oh yes,” Aramis says. “Absolutely.” He kisses them both, slow and dirty.  Athos can feel Porthos’ hand on the back of his neck while Aramis is kissing him and between the two sensations he’s shuddering. 

“Go,” Porthos says.  “Before we fog up the security cameras.”  He winks and Aramis grins back.  Athos kisses Aramis once again, softly. 

“When can we do this again?”  Aramis asks. 

He looks back and forth between them, waiting for a suggestion  It’s Porthos who offers it. 

“Why don’t you come do the baking for next week with us.  We’ll do it a day earlier and make something that’ll keep. Sunday? Athos’ place?" 

“Thank you for volunteering my house, Porthos.”  Athos’ tone is dry, but there’s no hiding the laughter in his eyes.  

“You have a bigger kitchen,” Porthos says.  “It’ll fit three of us better.”   So will Athos’ bed, he suspects, but none of them are saying anything like that yet. 

Watching Aramis’ car pull away, Porthos slips his hand into Athos’, weaving their fingers together and walking towards Athos’ car.  “I had a good time tonight,” Porthos says. “Thank you for taking a chance."

Athos smirks and squeezes his hand. “It was a way to possibly get to keep kissing you both, how could I not?" 

When Porthos bends to kiss him, Athos can feel all the hairs on his arms stand on end.  It’s so soft this time, soft and long and easy and Athos wants to sink into it.  Porthos’ free hand comes up, fingers sliding into Athos’ hair to cup the back of his head. “I could kiss you both for hours,” he breathes against Athos’ mouth. “I might do just that on Sunday." 

Athos’ tongue flicks over Porthos’ lower lip. “And when does the baking get done?" 

“Mmm," Porthos says, rubbing his lips against Athos’ mouth. “That’s why we’re doing it on Sunday.”  He deepens the kiss again and when he pulls back he says, “We’re starting early." 

Athos curls a hand over the back of Porthos’ neck and drags him close for another kiss.  “And picking something easy." 

Porthos huffs a laugh and the last kiss goes on and on.  “Maybe we’ll just have Aramis get a boxed mix of something.” 

“Why don’t you just have done with it and get something from a bakery?”  Athos’ eyes are dancing.

“Now, Athos,” Porthos’ voice is scolding.  “That would be cheating.” Whatever response Athos has is lost in a cracking yawn.  “Good night,” Porthos says, squeezing Athos’ hand. 

“Good night, Porthos,” Athos says and he can’t help how his voice drops when he says Porthos’ name.  A shiver runs down Porthos’ neck and over his shoulders and Athos is glad to know it’s not just him. 

When he pulls away, Athos glances in his rear-view mirror and he can see Porthos still standing there, one hand raised and a soft smile on his face.  That smile keeps Athos warm for the rest of the drive.  The memory of Aramis kissing Porthos, of how Aramis curled his fingers over Porthos’ hands where they were cupping Aramis’ face, keeps Athos warm for the rest of the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're ever like, "I'm gonna write something and give it cutesy chapter titles!" you should not do that. You should resist that urge. You should tell that urge you're stopping somewhere to pee and then drive off without it.


	6. Week 5 - The Walnut Brownie All For One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos hopes that Aramis doesn’t get any serious calls on Friday because if he’s anywhere close to as useless as Athos and Porthos, someone could get killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it my lovelies. Finishing up my Christmas story just in time for Valentine's day. That's about par for the course with me. Thank you for coming along for the ride, I had such a good time letting them play and be fluffy and ridiculously fun! 
> 
> Gratitude, always, to Cee, the other half of my brain. And to Dee and Nat and Karen, who are the finest cheerleaders ever. EVER.

Athos hopes that Aramis doesn’t get any serious calls on Friday because if he’s anywhere close to as useless as Athos and Porthos, someone could get killed. 

Porthos’ original plan had been to schedule an involved experiment that would keep the kids occupied during the last week before winter break, but before he’d even walked into the building that morning he’d known it was a mistake. His thoughts are on Aramis, on Athos, on all those kisses.  The chances of getting through the experiments today without fire, explosions, or a spill serious enough to need to be contained using something from the emergency kit on the wall are vanishingly small.

Just after noon, Athos sends Porthos an email.  _I appear to have left my brain at home today_. 

Porthos’ response is, _I’m showing them a video about mitosis. We’re not even in a biology unit. Beat that._  

Athos, having given his classes pre-printed practice worksheets and let them peer grade them, is ultimately triumphant.

 

Nothing of note happens in Porthos’ day until just after his second block of classes. It’s his planning period so when Julia asks if she can talk to him after class he smiles and nods. He’ll have plenty of time to answer whatever questions she has about the assignments. 

As soon as the last of the other students files out, Julia slides into the seat next to Porthos’ desk. “Hey Jules, what’s up?” he asks. 

Julia picks up a pencil and twirls it on its point for a second, fidgeting, before she says, “Mr. D, can I ask you a question?" 

“Of course you can, all of the stuff we’re doing lately is easy once you get the basic idea down—" 

Julia shakes her head, interrupting him, “It’s not about class.”  Porthos frowns as she settles something in her head. Her posture straightens and she looks him directly in the eye.  Her voice, when she speaks, is deadly serious. “Mr. D, what are your intentions toward my father?”  When Porthos just stares at her, mouth slightly open, she says, “I know you have a date on Sunday, you and Dad and Mr. de la Fère, and I just want to make sure you’re going to treat him well.”

Porthos looks at her and all he can think of is how he'd reacted to his favorite foster-sister’s face the first time a boy had broken her heart.  He’d wanted to find the kid and put his face through a wall. Porthos’ family was tiny, just him and the two kids who’d been with him in more that one home, and he’d always been fiercely, desperately protective of them.

He sees that same look on Julia’s face. Growing up she’d had only her mother; Isabel had told him at back-to-school night that it had always been the two of them against the world.  For Jules to have her father become so involved in her life, to have him folded into that tight, precious circle of her heart, Porthos can’t imagine how protective she must feel.

“Julia,” he says, not looking away from her, but not staring her down like an adult trying to bulldoze a kid’s concerns, “I have never met anyone who makes me feel the way your dad does, especially when he smiles. My intention toward him, and I promise you this, is to see him smile as much as I possibly can.  Maybe sometimes I’ll switch it up and try to get him to laugh instead, because that does crazy things to me, too, but I never want to see him sad." 

She sits back, mollified a bit, but there’s still a little frown on her forehead so he goes on. 

“I’m not going to say things will always be perfect, that’s not how relationships work, but I’ll never hurt him on purpose, just like I’ll never hurt Mr. de la Fère on purpose, and if there is hurt I’ll do everything I can to make it go away."

Julia’s nod is quick but firm. She slides off the chair and gives him a quick, shy smile.  “Thanks, Mr. D. Have a good time this weekend." 

She closes the door behind her as she leaves and Porthos pulls out his phone and sends a quick _I love you guys_ to his foster siblings.

 

Athos’ turn comes just after his last block of the day.  The bell has rung, the rest of the students are gone, but Julia is still in her seat. 

“Would you care to come up here, Julia,” Athos says, “and tell me what’s on your mind?" 

Julia slides onto the stool behind his lectern, facing him as he’s seated behind his desk.  Her feet are kicking back and forth, scuffing over the rungs of the stool.  “Some of the other kids think you’re mean,” she says, and whatever Athos had been expecting it wasn’t that. 

“Do you think I’m mean?” he asks her. 

She shakes her head. “I think sometimes you have to be tough to make people listen and do their work. I think sometimes you don’t want to act like you like one of us more than any other.  I know some of the kids don’t get your jokes.  That’s not mean, though, that’s just how you are.  Hard on the outside but…” she kicks her feet again. “Not all the way through." 

Athos smiles at her. “Don’t tell anyone, I’ll be ruined if my secret gets out.  You’re worried, Julia, what about?"

“It’s just,” she picks at a spot where the veneer is peeling off his lectern, flicking the bits away with her fingernails. “It’s just I want to make sure you know that my dad is the same way.”  She looks up at Athos and blinks.  “He seems tough and like nothing gets to him, but he’s a big softie on the inside. Just like you.” 

Athos picks up the cube of rare earth magnets on his desk and starts to twist them into shapes, keeping his hands and brain too busy to stop his mouth.  If he thinks about this too much, he won’t get it out. 

“Once, years ago, I had someone that I trusted enough to see the soft bits of me, and she took advantage.  She took what she knew and hurt me with it. For a long time after, I wished I couldn’t feel anything anymore, so I’d never be hurt like that again. I put up all this armor and pushed people away, even people I shouldn’t have. Then I met your father.  He reminded me that some people are worth letting in. Some, like your father and Mr. Du Vallon, are worth risking a little everyday hurt for all the joy that comes with it, they won’t take advantage of that trust."

Julia has stopped kicking, she’s stopped picking at the veneer, she’s just staring at Athos as he turns the magnets over and over in his hands while he talks. 

“I… I trust your father to never hurt me like I was before.  In turn, you can trust that I’d never want anyone to hurt the way I did, especially someone as special as your father.”  Athos meets her eyes. "You have my word." 

Julia nods and tucks a bit of her hair behind her ear.  She slips off the stool and gives Athos a shy smile as she turns to go.  “Thank you, Mr. de la Fère."

“You’re welcome, Ms. Garnier." 

As soon as she’s gone, Athos lets out the breath it feels like he’s been holding for years and lets his head drop to the desk. By the time his breathing is back to normal, the bell has rung and the noise of students in the halls is gone. How long has he been sitting here like this?  Everything he’d told her was true, but he hadn’t put it into words before, hadn’t even put it into coherent thought until he’d said it aloud to Julia. He lets the truth of it seep into him. 

When his head feels settled, when his heart has stopped hammering against the inside of his ribcage, Athos grabs his bag and walks down the halls to stand at Porthos’ door for the last few minutes before the final bell rings.

 

Athos slides into the room as the kids are jostling out in a storm of elbows and hormones.  Porthos’ smile is huge and just, plain happy. “This is a nice surprise!”  The instant he takes in the look on Athos’ face he turns serious. “You look a little shell-shocked.  You get a visit from Julia, too?"

“Porthos, were we just the recipients of the shovel speech from a thirteen-year-old?" 

“We were. I gotta admit, Athos, I like her for it. He’s her dad and he’s… She’s not even entirely sure he’s here to stay.  If we break his heart, he could leave. She thinks it’s getting serious and she wants to make sure our hearts are in the right places. In her place, I’d have done the same, but I wouldn’t have been as smart about it."

“Are we?” Athos asks. “Getting serious?”

Porthos slings his satchel over his shoulder and shrugs. “Relationships like this take a lot of work. All the usual dating fun and a little extra on top. I wouldn’t be doing this if I weren’t serious." 

“Good,” Athos says. “It’s always nice to know I'm not the only one. Walk me to my car?”  Porthos smiles and waves Athos through the door ahead of him. 

In the bitter afternoon wind of the parking lot, Athos puts a hand on Porthos’ chest, he can feel the warmth of Porthos’ skin through the layers, through his glove even, and it calms him. “I know it hasn’t been our primary concern of late, but we do need to figure out what we’ll make." 

Porthos’ eyebrows draw together. “I don’t even remember what the theme for the week is."

“Traditional family recipes,” Athos says, and there’s something brittle in his voice. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I haven’t got one."

“A traditional family recipe?  Or a traditional family?” Porthos asks. 

One side of Athos’ mouth quirks up. “Either. That wasn’t my mother’s recipe that first week.  My mother wouldn’t have known the inside of her own kitchen, that was the servants’ job. The servants wouldn’t have made that recipe, either.  My father had designed an optimal food plan for us in conjunction with his goal for our personal excellence.” Athos can’t keep the anger from his voice, even after all these years. "It should go without saying that there were no cookies on that list." 

Porthos cups Athos’ chin and rubs his thumb over his cheek.  “I lived in more foster homes than I can remember. I was thirteen before I realized not every kid kept all their stuff in a black plastic bag. So it wasn’t really traditional.  For the most part, it wasn’t really a family either." 

He kisses Athos on the forehead and Athos sighs. “We’re quite the pair,” Athos says. 

“Screw it,” Porthos says. “We’ll pick something out of a book and we’ll enjoy our date and fuck the theme." 

Athos flashes a wry grin. “We’ll make sure it’s good enough to beat the other departments, though?" 

Porthos cocks one eyebrow.  “Athos, please."

 

Porthos worries he’s going to spend most of his weekend watching the time creep by and waiting for Sunday afternoon, so he keeps himself busy. He does a the last of the semester’s unfinished grading on Saturday morning, enters everything in the tracking system and puts together three days of emergency lesson plans.  He isn’t planning on having three day's worth of emergencies, but contingency plans are important.  Besides, he thinks, unable to keep the smile off his face, if things go well tomorrow there might be an extended recovery time.

He takes every errand he’s been putting off for months and does them all that afternoon.  He visits friends, returns library books, goes to the post office. All the while, he’s sending texts to Athos that are helping keep him distracted. 

**Saturday - 12:04pm**

_How long have there been this many burnt-out bulbs in my kitchen? Was there so much tension in here that we overloaded the circuits?_  

**Saturday - 2:16pm**

_I blame you for this urge to clean. If I had realized this would lead to stress cleaning I would never have let you kiss me._

At half past three Porthos gets a message that is a picture of a glass of wine and a book sitting on the table next to his armchair and the caption,  _Cleaners came on Friday. Nothing to stress clean.  Have decided to stress fuck-off, instead._  

There’s one from d’Artagnan at 4 that’s just a picture of the man in front of him in line for coffee.  The man is wearing the ugliest shirt Porthos has ever seen, and d’Artagnan has captioned it, _think u shld wear this on ur date._  

The last text Porthos gets is just before five in the afternoon.  It’s from Constance.  _It’ll be amazing. Relax. Don’t give me that look._  

Porthos isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve the friendship of these amazing people, but he hopes they know how grateful he is.

 

Sunday, somehow, Porthos sleeps late.  He wakes up when the sun reaches the gap in his curtains and hits his eye like a targeting laser, and when he checks the clock it’s almost 10:30.  There’s an email from Athos, timestamped just after eight (“There is not enough coffee in the world to make that hour civilized, particularly on a Sunday,” Athos says) with a link to a recipe and a note saying, _Simple, fast, we can dress it up if we want. Here’s the ingredient list._  

The recipe is for basic, tried and true brownies.  Porthos grins, this will be perfect. 

The grocery store is a nightmare. It’s Sunday, so Porthos isn’t sure why he expected it to be anything else.  He’s just grateful there isn’t snow in the forecast; that would mean being pressed into this space with every person convinced that three to four inches of precipitation means having to stock up on toilet paper.  Not that Porthos doesn’t do pre-storm shopping, he just sticks to things he’s really going to want to have nearby if he’s off work the next day, and in that case it’s ribs and chips over bread and milk every time. 

Porthos ticks off the ingredients one by one as he piles them into the cart and, on a whim, throws a bag of walnuts in as well as a few different flavors of candy chips and the ingredients for chili. Having something to cook for lunch (dinner? break between rounds at midnight?) will keep him from biting his nails to the quick this afternoon. 

I _’m coming over early, I’m making lunch,_ is the text Porthos sends Athos just after noon. It isn’t a question.  Athos wonders how this man has managed to barrel his way into Athos’ life so quickly.  How, after years of avoiding Porthos’ very presence, he doesn’t even blink at the idea of Porthos cooking lunch in his kitchen.  Even more, how much he’s looking forward to kissing Porthos when he arrives. 

Athos is still in the shower when Porthos arrives, so he misses the doorbell. Twice. When he gets out of the shower, his phone has just started to buzz on the counter.

**Sunday - 12:45pm**

_Are you trapped under something heavy?_  

Athos huffs out a noise that, were it anyone else, would be a chuckle.  _I’m finishing something up in the back. The door’s open, let yourself in._  

He can hear Porthos come through the door and then nothing.  Athos assumes Porthos is going about preparing lunch, so he goes back to shaving. The music from the dock in his bedroom is filtering into the bathroom and Athos hums along.

There isn’t much to do, just cleaning up around the edges and making sure his beard isn’t creeping down his neck.  Five minutes at most. So that’s the longest possible time that Porthos could have been standing in the doorway, hipshot with his arms crossed, watching Athos without making a sound. 

Athos is wiping the last of the shaving foam from his face, patting his neck with a towel, when he sees that smirk over his shoulder reflected in the mirror and nearly screams like a child. “Fucking CHRIST, Porthos."

“Sorry,” Porthos says, unfolding himself from the doorjamb and shrugging.  He does not look the least bit sorry as he leans in to kiss a smile back on to Athos’ face. "I came back to tell you I was here and it was just too nice a view to leave." He takes the towel from Athos’ hands and wipes at tiny spot of foam from behind Athos’ left ear.  “I always seem to be cleaning you off.  One of these times maybe I’ll be the one to get you dirty first."

The heat in Athos’ face spreads down his neck and leaves bright red splotches on his chest, and because Athos is wearing nothing but a towel knotted around his waist, Porthos can see every bit of it. “Right,” Porthos says, his throat bobbing. “I’m going to go back to the kitchen now. Because I’m the one who said that if anything else happened, Aramis should be there from the start, and if I don’t go soon I’m going to break my own rule." 

He meets Athos’ gaze in the mirror and swallows again.  “Especially with the way you’re looking at me right now. Fuck, _Athos_ , the way you look— Right. Going.”  Porthos turns and, taking the prominent bulge in his jeans with him, nearly runs from the bedroom. 

Athos sits on the edge of his bed, hands braced on the mattress to either side of him, and wills his erection to go down so he can put some trousers on without injuring himself. It works, eventually. 

 

When Aramis arrives, the entire house smells like cumin and chili powder and garlic.  Porthos answers the door and waves Aramis in, taking his coat and kissing him firmly on the mouth.  In the kitchen, Athos is chopping red onions and bitching about having to clean up extra dishes. “I didn’t ask you to show up and cook." 

“Yes you did,” Porthos says. “You just didn’t ask me to show up and cook this. Now be nice, or Aramis will see what a grouch you can be.” 

“Best I see it at some point,” Aramis says and leans across the island to give Athos a quick kiss. “I missed you,” he says, cupping Athos’ cheek in one palm.  He turns to Porthos and says, “You too,” and takes Porthos’ hand in his.  They stand like that for a second, touching and smiling and just enjoying the warmth of the kitchen and each other.  Aramis squeezes Porthos’ hand and then goes to lift the lid on the chili pot.  “What smells amazing?" 

“Lunch,” Porthos says, grinning. “Get a bowl.” 

The next hour is spent eating and going over the recipe to decide how they can dress it up. The walnuts, Aramis says, are a great idea.  Athos votes for the butterscotch chips. Porthos doesn’t care as long as he gets to lick the spoon.  When he says the word ‘lick’ Aramis’ eyes go wide and the tips of Athos’ ears go pink. “Perverts,” Porthos says, chuckling.

They put Aramis in charge of prepping the pans and melting the butter.  Athos takes the wet ingredients.  Porthos, in a nod to the first thing he and Athos had agreed on in half a decade, measures the flour and cocoa powder.  They move around each other as they work, passing ingredients and ducking under each other’s arms and trading soft, easy kisses.  It would almost appear innocent were it not for the enormous flour handprints on Aramis and Athos’ asses. 

“You did that on purpose, that’s too precise to be an accident,” Athos says, indignantly brushing at himself.  “Did you get extra flour on your hand just to do that?” 

Porthos’ eyes glitter and his eyebrows jog up and down. “Trade secret, Athos.” 

Aramis is sifting the flour and cocoa powder together when he says, quieter than he’s been all afternoon, “Julia told me she’d talked to you both."

“She’s a great kid,” Porthos says.  “And she worries about you.” 

“She seems to be worried that one or both of you will break my heart. I told her that some relationships work and some don’t but that it’s not something we can know in the beginning." 

Athos puts a hand on his shoulder, cards his fingers through Aramis' hair, “Porthos says she might be scared that if this goes poorly you’ll leave.  Not just leave us, but leave her as well." 

Aramis’ eyes are suddenly fever-bright and brimming.  “I could _never_ —" 

“Just make sure she knows,” Porthos says. “You’re a great dad, just make sure she knows you love her, that she’s the most important thing.  We’ll take care of the ‘not breaking your heart’ bit." 

“Will you now?” Aramis asks. His eyelashes are damp, but he's smiling.

“That’s the plan,” Porthos says and takes Aramis chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his face to kiss him.  Athos stands next to them, watching Aramis’ eyelashes leave little wet spots on his cheeks as his face goes soft and relaxed.  He can see the moment when Porthos teases Aramis’ mouth open and deepens the kiss.  He’s watching as Aramis’ hands land, palms flat, on Porthos’ chest and his body arches into the kiss.

Aramis’ eyes stay closed for half a second after the kiss ends, and when he opens them he looks to Athos.  His expression is still drunk from the kiss and his hands are still curling into Porthos’ shirt. 

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life,” Athos says and Aramis smiles, almost shy. 

“Just wait,” Porthos says with a grin and leaves a fresh flour handprint on Athos’ ass. 

Aramis grins.  “Jules also said you guys didn’t used to get along." 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Athos says, scooping the flour and cocoa powder from Aramis’ bowl into the bowl with the wet ingredients. 

Aramis just stares at him. “I thought she was having a laugh." 

“Oh, no,” Porthos says, folding the flour into the eggs and butter. “Couldn’t be in the same room with each other." 

Athos can only smile at his matter-of-fact tone. “Or rather, _wouldn’t_ be in the same room with each other.  I’d come in and Porthos would leave.  I’d see Porthos in a room and just walk right past." 

Aramis’ face is a mask of confusion.  “Why?" 

“Pride,” Porthos says. “And a fair bit of stupidity.  Also a complete failure to communicate." 

“But mostly pride,” Athos says. “That’s the only thing that could have kept me so far away, for so long, from a man I was that attracted to.” 

“Wasted time,” Porthos says, and his voice is wistful, “but we’ll make up for it, I promise." 

“So you just erased him from your mind for years?”  Aramis asks 

“Well, no.  Not entirely,” Athos says. “No matter how successful I was at avoiding him at work, he kept creeping back in. My students would wonder why I was so harsh with homework sometimes.”  He’s blushing but he’s determined, and if he gets his timing just right..  "I couldn’t very well tell them it was because I’d thought of Porthos while trying to fantasize about something else and just been mad at the world for days after." 

Athos’ timing is impeccable.  Porthos realizes what Athos has just admitted to at exactly the right point in stirring for his startled jerk to result in him flicking brownie batter across his own face.  Porthos turns to look at Athos. “You’re a fuckin’ menace."

Aramis is watching the interplay between them with a besotted grin on his face.

“Would you rather I slapped it on your ass?” Athos asks, the very picture of innocence. 

Porthos’ eyes glaze over and his nostrils flare. “Is that on offer?" 

“Not at the moment,” Athos says. “However, I think it’s my turn to return the favor and point out that you have something on your face." 

Aramis laughs at first but goes silent when he sees Athos lean in and lick a spot of batter from Porthos’ lower lip.  Porthos’ eyes go hot and focused, but he doesn’t move.  Athos isn’t shorter than Porthos by much, no more than an inch, but he goes up on his toes to make sure he’s staring straight into Porthos’ eyes as he cups Porthos’ neck in his hands. 

Athos kisses his cheeks, sucking kisses that clean any trace of chocolate.  He kisses Porthos’ jaw, trailing licks along the strong edge of it and making sure nothing is left behind. He kisses the tip of Porthos' nose, not because there’s batter on it, just because he’s wanted to kiss the tip of Porthos’ nose since the moment they met.  Athos tugs Porthos’ face a fraction closer and swipes his tongue across Porthos’ upper lip, sucking it into his mouth before sliding his lips into a proper kiss. He licks into Porthos’ mouth and his kisses taste of cocoa and sugar and all their kisses to come. 

Porthos moans under him, fingers gripping Athos’ ribs, fingers wrinkling his shirt, holding him up so that barely any weight is resting on Athos’ feet.  He can feel Athos’ whine in his own throat and Athos’ breathy sighs on his cheeks.   Athos' fingers curl into the back of Porthos' neck, the sharp edges of his nails adding a bite to the kiss to pair with the sweetness. Porthos hisses at the hint of pain and rocks his hips against Athos’. 

“Fuck. _Athos_ ,” he says, resting their foreheads together and dragging in air until he catches his breath. 

“There,” Athos says, swiping at Porthos’ eyebrow. “That’s got it." 

Aramis is standing with his hand on the oven door, jeans tight against his groin and struggling to find the words to tell them how it feels to watch them kiss.  “So fucking gorgeous,” he says, and Athos smiles at him. 

None of them says a word as they pour the batter into pans and slide them into the oven.  They just look from one to another, thinking of everything the future could hold.  Tonight. Tomorrow. Years to come.

Aramis is setting the timer when he asks. “So this is brownie week?  I wonder what kind of offerings the other teams will have." 

“Not brownie week,” Porthos says, dishing himself another bowl of chili and passing Aramis a beer from the fridge. “This week is ’traditional family recipes’ so I’m guessing we’ll see Constance’s mom’s coconut cake again.” 

“Any chance of Louis bringing the devil’s food cupcakes he brought to the faculty lunch?” Athos asks and Porthos’ face lights up. 

“I remember those, they were fantastic. I think he spiked them with something." 

Athos smirks. “All the more reason to enjoy them." 

Aramis takes a pull at his beer.  “So which of you has a family who makes brownies?  Is it Porthos?  Athos you strike me as someone who has family recipes like fruitcake and rum balls." 

“While you’re assigning me the typically alcoholic recipes I’d like to point out that I’m the only person in this kitchen not drinking right now.”  Athos is indignant, but Porthos only smiles.

“That’s because you don’t like beer.”  He reaches into the cabinet to get Athos a glass.  Handing it to him, Porthos says, "The wine’s on the counter by the pantry."

“Thank you,” Athos says, and pours himself a glass.

“So?” Aramis asks. “Is it your family recipe, Porthos?"

“Ah, no,” Porthos says, scrubbing at the back of his neck with one big palm. “Athos and me, we don’t either one of us come from what you might call a ‘traditional recipe’ kind of family.  I spent most of my years as a kid in the foster system and Athos’ parents were…." 

“Absentee. At best,” Athos says, his voice echoing slightly in the bowl of his wine glass. 

Aramis cocks his head.  “So the brownies are…" 

“A recipe we picked off the internet,”  Porthos says, taking a half-hearted swipe at the counter with a towel.  “We figured at this point we could take or leave the bake sale business. Today isn’t about that for us, it’s about being here. Together. With you."

Aramis turns to see Athos, eyes shining and sincere, nod at him. 

“Well, then I have an idea,” Aramis says.  “I’m declaring it. Right now. Next year, the week before Christmas, we'll make them again.  Same recipe.”  He shrugs, a little sheepish now that the words are out in the open. “Now it’s a tradition."

“For our family?” Porthos asks, and it’s clear he wants to kick himself as soon as he says it. He rushes, he always has, and this is technically their second date. 

“Yeah,” Aramis says, and his voice is soft and so, so hopeful.  “If you want. If _we_ want.” 

Aramis turns to look at Athos.  “Athos?" 

Athos says, “Everything,” and then he’s standing in front of Aramis, looking over his face, taking his hands.  “I want everything.” 

The laugh Aramis lets out is so relieved it’s got a hint of hysteria at the edges of it.  At the sound of it Porthos can feel the fist that’s been around his heart since he spoke loosen its fingers. He has always been the only one who rushed, the only one who fell hard and fast and so fucking easy.  Now, with Athos and Aramis, in this as in so many things, he won’t be alone. 

Aramis strokes a thumb across Athos hairline, just feeling the softness of the hairs under his finger.  “Athos, you look very much like a man who needs to be kissed.”   The sound Athos makes isn’t a laugh and it isn’t a breath, it’s dancing between the two. 

“Yes,” he says. “Remarkably perceptive of you." 

Nothing feels like a kiss from Aramis. He’s incapable of holding things back and when his mouth covers Athos’ everything comes rushing through. In that kiss, Athos can feel the first smile Aramis gave him that night in his classroom and all the smiles since.   Aramis palms lay flat against Athos’ face, warm and firm, the thumbs dragging softly over his cheekbones.  His tongue is stroking over Athos’, dragging against it and teasing him.  When Athos whimpers (and god, he does it without shame) he can hear an answering noise from Aramis that’s nothing so much as a purr. 

Athos knows it must look like he’s in pain, his brows together and his eyes squeezed shut, but it’s only that he’s trying so hard to hold onto every instant of this kiss. 

He doesn’t hear Porthos come up behind him, only knows he’s there when he feels Porthos’ hand settle on the back of his neck, warm and strong. “There’ll be another kiss, Athos.”  And there it is, Porthos only ever needed a crack to be able to see straight through him.  But oh, he’s right, there _will_ be another kiss. Athos doesn’t have to memorize this one, he doesn’t have to memorize any of them. 

His forehead smoothes out and Athos makes a soft, desperate noise in his throat as he surges up into Aramis. He’s grabbing almost frantically at Aramis’ shoulders, pulling him tight and putting all his hope into this kiss.

The buzz of the timer is like a shot in the room and Athos gasps and tears his mouth away from Aramis. 

Neither of them speaks, it’s Porthos who eventually just whispers a quiet, fierce, “ _Fuck_ ,” and turns the timer off.  He pulls the pans out of the oven, setting them on the cooling rack, while Athos and Aramis get their breath back. 

There’s a moment of silence that might be awkward if it weren’t for the fact that all three of them are spinning one fantasy after another in their heads, spurred on by the memory of their lips on one another, their skin under each other’s hands.  All of them are thinking it, no one is saying it out loud. 

Porthos is sliding the flour bag back into the canister when he suddenly freezes.  He thinks about air pressure, calculates force and expansion and the tensile strength of paper.  “Athos, are all the showers in this house big enough for a football team or just the one in your bathroom?"

Athos frowns.  “Just the one in my bathroom, why?" 

Grinning, Porthos takes the flour bag and gathers the top together, blowing into it just a little and twisting it as he turns around.  Athos and Aramis are still standing next to each other, well away from the cooling brownies, so Porthos doesn’t have to be particularly careful when he holds the bag up and slams his fist into the side of it.  The flour that explodes out showers down on them, the floor, the counter, but not the dessert.

Athos gasps, Aramis splutters, both of them stare at Porthos. Porthos just grins.

“Just thinking that we are definitely going to need a shower after this."

 

(Athos’ water heater will provide enough hot water keep three grown men warm for forty minutes.  After that, it’s up to them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They win, of course. It's the salted-caramel cupcakes that pushes them over the top. 
> 
> The brownie recipe is [this basic one](http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Brookes-Best-Bombshell-Brownies/Detail.aspx?evt19=1) which you then add things to until it's tarted up like an eight-year-old's lunch box and perfectly sinful. Serve with ice cream, because why the fuck not?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking some liberties with the public school system in America to make bits of this happen. As I'm married to a public school teacher please rest assured that I'm fully aware of what I'm fudging and that the most egregious bit is the amount of free time and disposable income I'm giving them.
> 
> Also, on reading this Porthos is coming off as really much grumpier than I'd intended. Give him a little time to warm up and know that he's got his reasons. To me, he will never be anything other than perfect, but that doesn't mean he's without flaw.


End file.
